


Many-Colored and Splendid

by ACommonAnomaly (RowanBaines)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Agender Character, Anxiety, Character Death, Depression, Grief, Guilt, Healing, Loss, Mentions of Suicide, Mourning, Moving On, New York City, Suicidal Thoughts, after far too long, annoyingly upbeat people from your past showing up to ruin a perfectly good pity party, but ultimately it's a story about healing i swear, mentions of drug use, modern age elves, past trauma, seriously maglor why so stubborn, some violence, this sounds gloomy, various musical instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:56:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanBaines/pseuds/ACommonAnomaly
Summary: Sometimes it's the people you meet when you're at the end of your rope who can change the course of your life forever.Perhaps more so when that person is a mysterious stranger whose compassion seems to spring from a deeply troubled past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand heartfelt thanks to my best friend and beta reader, [Druxykexy](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/druxykexy/)!
> 
> It's said that elves eventually fade, but since "their lives are long beyond the reckoning of Men" I like to imagine the time frame for that being extremely long by human standards. Though I'm sure Maglor did spend time singing in pain and regret, I can't imagine he didn't eventually sing of other things, and thinking about that gave me the idea for this story.
> 
> This fic deals with some heavy themes, including suicide, bereavement, and depression. If you have any questions about the tags you want to ask me before reading, please don't hesitate to message me on [tumblr](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/) or send me an email at ra.amok at gmail.com.

When there's nowhere else to run  
Is there room for one more son  
One more son  
If you can hold on  
If you can hold on, hold on _  
_ _– The Killers, All These Things That I've Done_

 

I wander out of the bar in a daze, weaving my way down the sidewalk with the bright lights of Ocean Parkway at my back. I flinch a little at the rumbling and screeching of the arriving Q train and pick up my pace. I came to Brighton Beach out of habit more than anything, and though the chattering of the Russian couple walking toward me sparks memories I’d rather not dwell on, memories of someone gone, my thoughts soon drift toward the water.

I can see the beach up ahead, the pale of the sand, and beyond that, a dark mass that cuts across the dully glowing sky to create a bleak horizon. There are stars above me, I know, but all I see now is sickly muted color pushing back against encroaching dark.

My feet sink into the sand and my strides grow longer. I’m eager to face whatever decision it is I will make tonight. I feel calm beneath the roiling of hopeless internal howling.

I reach the water and wade into the lightly slapping waves, feeling gritty sand and cool saltwater fill my shoes and plaster the legs of my trousers to my prickling skin. For a moment indifference becomes a wondrous thing, a release from all the things in life that have wound tight around me and made my steps falter, a kind of silent haven where the ever-echoing voices of hurt and regret can’t reach me.

There is joy in release. I see that as I gaze out over the water, contemplating my next move. I remain still, letting my thoughts settle, considering the prospect of a more final release. Minutes slide by, and I imagine what it would feel like to swim out until my limbs grow weak and tired, and then to let myself sink. I imagine the water filling my lungs, the fear and pain of it, and then the darkness.

There are things worse than death, I know.

And yet…

It’s with some alarm that I realize someone is standing alongside me, far enough away that he can’t reach out and touch me, but close enough that his presence can only be a purposeful intrusion.

My indifference burns up in a brief flare of defensive anger. I’m suddenly aware of my heart beating in my chest as the tall stranger turns to me with a look of casual interest, ignoring the cold water that is rushing around his legs and turning his beige slacks a splotchy dark brown color.

My first thought when our eyes meet is that he’s remarkably good-looking in a careless sort of way, if a little underweight. The planes of his face are smooth and angular and his skin is so pale it’s almost luminescent. His long, dark hair is pulled back in a messy pony tail, and there are random unraveling braids caught up in it that seem as though they were absently created only to be swept back out of the way.

It’s his eyes that really capture my attention, though. It’s dark enough that I shouldn’t be able to discern the color as I do and yet, as though they are lit from behind, I can clearly see that they are the palest blue grey, lined with a deep slate grey.

“Hello.” His voice seems to be outside of all the other sounds around us, sharp and clear in my ears even though it’s not loud.

I blink and force out an incredulous, “Hi?”

He smiles at that, and though there is a part of me that knows I should probably be concerned about this bizarre man approaching me, I can’t seem to muster up anything that could be considered an appropriate response in this situation.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but…”

His voice is smooth, his words carefully articulated, and I find that I am struggling hard against the pull of intrigue. It grates on my nerves that he has caught my attention, because there is nothing for me here anymore. I’m tired, worn out, and hurt deep down into my being.

I won’t have my interest grabbed and held, rooting me here in the moment.

The man’s eyes never leave mine, and after a long pause he says, “Do you need help?”

Help. That one word shakes loose all the things I have tightly bound up within me.

My eyes burn. Dammit, how my breath hitches. I’m suddenly the child that begs to know _why,_ why good things faded or bruised or shattered, why the body betrays itself and throbs with invisible wounds, why every bad choice burgeons out in inky tendrils that stain everything that happens after.

My indifference, my anger, everything that I had wrapped protectively around me falls away at this stranger’s gentle offer, leaving me raw and vulnerable.

I don’t care who he is. I feel like I’m dying, and I _do_ need help.

“Will you talk to me?” he asks. “I’d like to help if I can.”

I take a few deep shuddering breaths before I murmur, “Yeah. Alright.” Because I’m going under and I suddenly don’t have the energy to question the hand that is pulling me back up.

I fall back a couple steps, joints that think they’re much older than they are grinding in protest. Then I’m sitting in the sand and he’s lowering his lanky form to sit beside me.

I tell him everything.

 

***

 

His apartment is in Queens.

I told him about losing my job and about needing to find a new place to live, but his offer had still caught me off guard.

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting charity,” I had said. “Besides, I don’t even know you. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You seem nice, but you could be some kind of lunatic or something. Hell, _I_ could be some kind of a lunatic for all you know.”

He had given me the strangest look, raised eyebrows and a rueful half smile.

Now I walk into the clean, cozy lobby with a suitcase rolling behind me and I’m internally laughing at my gumption. I’ve been interviewed by prospective roommates before, gone to look at apartments, and chatted up strangers. Those people didn’t introduce me to half the building after being merrily greeted by damn near everyone between the subway stop and the apartment building.

So he’s friendly, this Maglor. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But I’ve learned to trust my gut and although there’s a lot about him that I don’t know, I can’t sense anything in him that gives me alarm.

The doorman, Henrik, greets me and takes my suitcase—my arms ache and I only make a token protest—and follows me into the elevator.

“Mister Makalaurë is still out, but he told me you were coming today.”

I say “Hmmm,” and nod. I’m tired and stand-offish at the moment, gloomily contemplating the prospect of taking yet more pain pills to get me through the day, but Henrik doesn’t seem to notice.

“Welcome home!” he beams as he sets my suitcase down in front of the door.

He saunters back toward the elevator, a languid kind of waddle, and I take a deep breath before pulling the shiny silver key out of my pocket and opening the door.

The arrangement is not an unpleasant one. Maglor travels for his work sometimes, having made a career for himself as a concert violinist, apparently. I’ll be taking care of his cats while he’s away, as well as doing housework until I find a new job and can pay rent properly.

I do have a small savings, but I reason that if this goes south I’ll need that money to make a fresh start somewhere else. I’m reassuring myself, I know, but really I’ve been in stranger situations than this and I don’t need much convincing.

I’m dragging my suitcase toward the guest bedroom—now my bedroom—when one of the cats trots up to me and lets out a rumbling “mrow.”

There are three cats, I’m told, though so far I’ve only met two of them. There’s Tesla, a black female cat who seems wary but very curious and interested in my presence here. Then there’s Gerasimus, who Maglor tells me is a fluffy calico, but she has yet to show herself. Maglor says that, although she prefers to remain hidden most of the time, I’ll probably catch a glimpse of her one evening.

I’ve seen no sign of her, so I’ll just have to take his word for it that there are three cats and not two.

This cat’s name is Bob. His body is stout and stiff, his tail broken, and his right ear is shredded. His fur is bright orange and striped and his yellow eyes watch me with an intensity that makes me carefully edge around him, even though Maglor swears he’s a gentle creature.

My room has a bed, a dresser, and a small desk, but Maglor has cleared out everything else to make room for my own things. It feels bare and lonely for the moment.

I hoist the suitcase up onto the bed and sigh as I look around, then I start unpacking.

 

***

 

The apartment doesn’t need much cleaning. It’s a little cluttered, though spacious enough that the clutter isn’t overwhelming. It’s bright and open, and looks like it might have started off with a minimalist theme before Maglor’s possessions began to accumulate. It all looks so haphazard, and I make a mental note to look into stylish storage options for him.

In Maglor’s office the shelves are overflowing, books stacked in front of books and on the desk nearby. There are volumes on chemistry, physics, and anthropology among other things, but there’s also fiction and even some graphic novels. I cringe over a wordy and voluminous copy of _the Political Economy of International Relations_ , but fondly handle his beautiful leatherbound editions of _the Chronicles of Narnia_.

His tastes seem to be eclectic.

I dust everything, stopping here and there to examine knick knacks that look like they travelled far to get here. He seems to be fond of antiques, and on a table beneath the high window, an old Daguerreotype camera sits next a round, many-knobbed device that I can’t even begin to guess the function of, though it intermittently beeps and lights up.

On his desk a pile of opened letters have spilled out of a tiered storage tray, and as I gather them up, I notice that all of them are from various museums, some with foreign postmarks. I’m tempted to examine their contents, but I’ve lingered too long over his desk and I’m starting to feel like a snoop.

No sooner do I have this thought, then I notice the books at the other end of his long desk. They’re history books from various time periods, from what I can see, and one of them is open.

A set of figures is circled with a notation in the margin reading “far too generous an estimate.” My eye is then drawn to the next page, where a sentence is crossed out entirely and an emphatic “WRONG” written beneath it.

I raise my eyebrows at that and mumble, “Aren’t you cheeky.”

I slip one of the other books out from underneath the open one and flip it open. A slip of paper falls out, a note Maglor apparently wrote reminding himself to contact a professor, whose name I can’t make out, an address messily jotted beneath. The chapter seems to be about the possible causes for the late Bronze Age collapse. I replace the note and close the book, and I’m eying a book on Stonehenge, which has a bright green post-it note peeking out from between its pages, when a thump startles me.

“Oh, hello Tesla,” I say to the sleek black cat watching me, her tail flicking. I hadn’t noticed her when I came in, but apparently she had been on top of one of the bookshelves. I feel like she’s judging me for being nosy.

As I set everything right on Maglor’s desk, I have to wonder if he isn’t a bit of a know-it-all.  I mean, what kind of pretentious person jots down corrections in history books? I imagine him tracking down historians and professors and haranguing them on their shoddy knowledge, and I chuckle.

It’s comforting to learn some of his flaws, though, because everyone has them and it’s the hidden, hard-to-discover ones that tend to be the worst.

This isn’t so bad.

 

***

 

I’m sitting at the island sipping a mug of black coffee when Maglor makes his way into the kitchen and begins pulling out pans and dishes.

“Would you like an omelet?” he asks.

“No, I’m good.”

Maglor turns, a skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other, and he looks around like he suddenly doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing.

I’m still too tired to think much, so to keep things simple I amend, “Actually, that would be good. Thanks.”

He shakes off his apparent confusion and starts setting out ingredients, and I shake my head and wonder if I should pour the man a very large mug of coffee and make another pot on top of that.

He hums while he cooks—he’s almost always humming, I’ve noticed—and when he swipes his hair back from his face I can’t help but notice his ear. It’s…pointy. Not dramatically pointed, so that I could mistake him for a video game elf, but it’s enough that it’s a bit strange.

And since I’m only on my first cup of coffee and therefore my brain-to-mouth filter isn’t in place yet, I blurt out, “Your ears are really pointy.”

For a moment I’m sure he heard me, but then he’s poking idly at the colorful mass of egg in the skillet and his humming gets a little louder, words forming under his breath though I can’t understand them. Then he’s singing, not humming, and my breath catches at the beauty of his voice.

I feel a little light-headed, and as I watch Maglor it occurs to me that he looks like a perfectly average man. Not too tall or too pale or too thin, and his ears…I don’t know why I would take particular note of someone’s ears, but they, too, are perfectly normal.

I’m staring absently at the stove, at the lazy drifting motions of Maglor’s hands as he cooks, and beyond him the quick blinking of the numbers where the time hasn’t been set on the stove’s display, when my mind begins to clear a little.

I snap back completely when Maglor murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

But I can’t imagine who or what the apology is for, and I just quirk an eyebrow and take a long drink from my mug.

“Oh, I’m burning it.” Maglor says a minute later. “I’m sorry, I must have been distracted.”

He’s frantically scooping the omelet onto a plate, and though it’s a little past golden brown, I’d probably eat it anyway just to wipe that disappointed look off his face.

“That’s ok. It doesn’t look too bad.”

“This one will be mine,” he says, setting it aside and taking out more eggs.

I don’t argue, because he seems perfectly satisfied with this solution, and despite the failure of his first effort, the smell wafting through the kitchen is amazing.

I hadn’t realized I was so hungry.

Once my omelet is in front of me, I take a large bite and nearly spit it back out because it’s burning hot. I’m fanning my mouth with my hand when I realize Maglor is observing me with the same kind of attention people give to suspenseful movie scenes. He watches me unmoving and unblinking, and I give him a thumbs up as I blow on another bite of omelet before eating it.

“This is really good. Thanks,” I say after I’ve swallowed, though in my head I add, _please don’t make this awkward_.

Maglor blinks, nods, then starts eating his own omelet, though judging by the face he’s making it doesn’t taste as good as mine does.

“You do this often? I mean, cook breakfast like this?” I ask when I’m about halfway through my breakfast. Maglor doesn’t seem to mind long silences, but they make me uneasy and I inevitably try to fill them.

With inane blather, apparently.

Maglor shakes his head, pushing away his unfinished omelet. “Not really. I just thought you might need to eat.”

I nod slowly, not sure what to make of that. Does he notice how much I eat? He seems pretty busy, so surely he isn’t keeping tabs on me like that.

“If you enjoy it I could do it more often,” he offers. His fingers are lightly drumming the countertop in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s doing it. “I can buy more eggs and make different types of omelets. Or I could make something else. I have waffles. They’re frozen waffles, but I can learn to make them fresh.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. In other circumstances, and with anyone else, a conversation like this would set off alarm bells in my head. But Maglor is so serious and awkward, as though he’s not sure how to act and is just trying to get it right.

“You really like to cook, huh?” I ask, still trying to work out the best way to refuse this poor man’s very generous offer of fresh waffles daily.

He shrugs. “I used to cook a lot growing up. My brothers were always hungry. Now I mostly make simple things like frozen dinners. And soup.”

“Canned soup?” I tease.

“Yes. I still remember how to cook, though. I think.” He gives me the faintest smile, like he wants to make a joke, but can’t decide if he should.

I smirk at him, hoping that will encourage him. Or maybe provoke him. I still feel heavy, like there’s a weight pressing down on my chest, but it’s hard to dwell on dark things when Maglor is sitting in front of me trying to make me feel at home. I’m still not entirely certain how to feel about all of this, but I’m quickly getting used to it.

“Well, that’s no good,” I say. “There are so many amazing restaurants in New York City. You’ve got to get out more. Broaden your horizons.”

“I eat food from restaurants sometimes.”

“What restaurants?”

“They…” He casts a look over his shoulder toward the front entrance. “People slide menus under my door. Some places down the street deliver.”

I snort. “Watch out world, here comes Maglor! A true culinary adventurer.”

“You could show me.” His voice sounds casual, but his expression is unmistakably earnest. “Take me to some of these amazing restaurants.”

For a moment my mood plummets. I remember going out to restaurants. I used to do it often. I used to go to the movies and to museums. I used to take pleasure in new experiences and meeting new people. I can’t remember the last time I felt enthusiasm for anything and that makes me tired.

But now this strange, friendly man is sitting in front of me and I can’t help but think that if we get out and do something, I might actually enjoy myself.

It wouldn’t hurt to spend more time with my roommate, and if I’m honest with myself I am curious.

“Sure.” I shrug and smile. “I can do that sometime.”

 

***

 

“A _pizza_ burger.”

Maglor is staring down at his plate, carefully contemplating his food.

“Pizza and burgers, a match made in heaven.”

Maglor doesn’t look convinced, but he does let out a tiny huff that I suspect is a repressed laugh as he lifts the bun to stare at the mass of melted mozzarella cheese.

“Stop poking at it and eat it,” I say. I take a large bite of my own burger, then let out a blissful groan that makes a passing waitress smile. I know there must be sauce dripping down my chin, but I can’t bring myself to care.

The next time I tear my eyes off my food, Maglor is chewing slowly, a thoughtful look on his face.

I wait for him to swallow and ask, “Well?”

Maglor nods. “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” I give him a look of mock-disgust and then begin to eat again with more obvious relish than before. Which means I’m probably making a spectacle of myself. But Maglor’s lips turn into an amused half smile and for some reason I feel the strongest sense of accomplishment.

“How did you find this place?” He asks when he’s about halfway through his burger.

I had just been battling the temptation to tease him for the almost dainty way he wipes his fingers on his napkin in between bites, but his question makes my stomach twist and I grow serious.

“I used to work in this building. Fifth floor.” We’re on the ground floor, and though I used to eat at this restaurant often on my breaks, I haven’t been back in some time. “It’s that job I told you about. The one I had to quit when the health issues started up.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I’ve never met anyone who seems to feel so deeply every apology that passes his lips. I find his sincerity and concern admirable, but it makes me imagine that his life is full of regrets. It makes me want to protect him, to make sure I never give him anything to be sorry about.

I shrug. “It’s fine. I mean, I loved my job, and it’s kind of surreal being back here but...I don’t know. Things are different now, but maybe that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

I don’t believe what I’m saying, but I hope that one day I will.

Maglor watches me for a minute, and when he speaks his voice is soft, yet intense. “You’ll be ok.”

His words send a sharp pain through my chest because I can’t remember the last time I felt ok.

But then I’m smiling, because I’m sitting in a quiet corner of a restaurant sharing my favorite meal with an odd, kind man who has a tiny dab of sauce on the corner of his mouth. If there will be more moments like this in my life then maybe my future won’t be as bleak as I fear.

“Yeah, well…” I shrug again and pick up my burger. “We’ll see.”

 

***

 

Unearthly music.

I knew he was a violinist but this is…it’s _three o’clock in the morning_ is what it is.

I push open the door to his office and some part of my brain is dazzled by the virtuosity of his playing, the quick dance of his fingers and the smooth motions of the bow, but it’s simply too damn early.

I want to yell at him, _are you insane?_

Instead I call out, “Hi!”

The bow cuts through the air as Maglor turns in a whirling motion, leaving us both in a ringing silence.

“Good morning,” he says, looking bright-eyed and invigorated.

“Morning?” I almost regret my outraged expression. Almost.

He looks toward the window, then at me standing here in my pajamas, and his face falls.

“Oh.”

For a moment I’m not sure what to do. This is his apartment, after all. And though technically I am working for him, I still feel like I’m a guest here more than anything. Who am I to complain if my gracious host wants to play virtuosic violin music at 3am?

And he looks so contrite.

I chew my lip. “That was really beautiful music. Loud, but beautiful.”

He’s cringing now, though it manifests as only a few faint creases and a slight parting of his lips as he sucks in a slow breath.

“I,” he starts, visibly struggling for words, “sometimes lose track of what time it is. Or what day. Or…”

“It’s fine, really. It just startled me awake, but I’m sure I’ll be able to fall right back to sleep,” I lie.

Part of me feels bad for barging in on in on him, but then if I hadn’t he might have carried on all night and I would likely have been very cranky with him in the morning. I wonder if the neighbors have ever called the police on him to make a noise complaint. I’m betting they have.

“I do apologize.”

I can’t help but note the almost reverent way he handles the violin as he puts it away in its case. The thing looks old but beautiful in a battered, rustic kind of way.

“Don’t worry about it.” I’m already backing out of the room. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alex.”

The way he says my name makes it sound so soft, and I’m suddenly painfully aware of all my sharp edges. I promise myself I’ll be especially friendly and engaging in the morning.

And less grumpy the next time he wakes me up with music before sunrise.

 

***

 

Maglor is pacing around the living room as he taps out a message on his phone, and I’m flipping through the planner that I jot down all his upcoming shows and appointments in.

Once I realized that Maglor has no sense of time whatsoever, and often ignores the calendar alerts that pop up on his phone if he’s busy, I insisted on the planner and have made it one of my duties to make sure he gets where he needs to be when he needs to be there.

At first he insisted that I didn’t need to go through the trouble, that my housekeeping duties were enough, but once he realized how convenient it was to not have to worry about his schedule, he gratefully accepted my help.

And what can I say, I like feeling useful and keeping my mind busy.

I pause over an entry for an upcoming event. Maglor has a performance in a week in Portland, Oregon, for a classical music festival, and he’s been meeting with a pianist he’s befriended so they can work their way through Beethoven’s violin sonatas. I feel a sense of satisfaction that everything is in order—both travel and lodging arrangements—and resume turning pages.

I stop a few moments later and frown at the elegant scribble that is definitely not my handwriting.

“Maglor, what is this?” I hold up the planner and point to the entry once Maglor looks up from his phone.

He squints for a moment before his eyes light up. “Ah, I’m taking on a student.”

“Oh. You’re giving violin lessons now? Will you have time for that?”

“I’ll work it out. And I’m not teaching him the violin. He wants to learn to play the bandurria.”

“The…what?”

“The bandurria. It’s similar to the mandolin but it’s—" he cuts off and walks toward his room. “Just a minute. I’ll show you.”

He disappears down the hall, phone now stowed away in his pocket, and comes back a minute later carrying what is apparently a bandurria.

I burst out laughing. “What _is_ that?”

“A bandurria.” Maglor looks mildly offended, and holds the instrument a little closer to his chest as if to protect it from my scrutiny.

It looks like someone took a guitar and squished it down into a squat mini guitar. Its body is rounded and the neck is very short, though it seems to have more strings than a guitar.

After giving me a narrow-eyed look, Maglor sits on the couch with exaggerated dignity and settles the bandurria into what looks like a comfortable playing position. His fingers begin to rapidly move over the strings and the room fills with music.

It’s a fast paced kind of folk song that has an eerie edge to it, and it makes my skin prickle. Though I stand still, I’m filled with a sense of movement, as though something in me is spinning dangerously close to an abyss, though it never quite touches the edge.

Bob the cat comes running in from the kitchen and sits down near me as he watches Maglor with wide eyes. The last notes of the song are still ringing in the room when Bob lets out a petulant “mow” and then lies down with his feet tucked beneath him.

Maglor rests the bandurria on his lap and waits for my response.

“That was pretty neat,” I admit.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I laughed at your bandurria,” I add, though I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“I forgive you.” His deadpan expression throws me off. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Maglor is just playing along or when he’s serious.

A few long moments pass and because I’m allergic to awkward silences I ask, “Just how many instruments do you play?”

I’ve seen Maglor play the violin and the guitar, and he has a harp in his bedroom. Last week an upright piano appeared one morning in the living room. Now the Bandurria.

“A few.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve travelled a lot and picked up some things along the way.”

“So how did you find this prospective student of yours?”

“I met him on the subway. He had come by a bandurria but didn’t seem to know anything about it. I told him its name and explained the instrument’s history, and he asked if I could teach him to play it.”

I cross my arms. “So you’re inviting this random guy you met on the subway to come to your home for lessons?”

“No. I will go to his apartment to give him lessons.”

“Aren’t you worried? He could be unhinged or something.”

“He’s not.” Maglor’s smile is one of his mild, patient ones.

I know it’s pointless to press this issue at this point, so I say, “Alright. Just be careful. Take some pepper spray or something.”

He’s about to respond when the phone in his pocket begins to chirp brightly. He pulls it out and says, “I have to take this. Excuse me.”

When he’s gone I pick up the planner again. I’m searching for more of Maglor’s scribbles when Bob the cat begins to make retching noises.

I look up and frown. “Are you ok, kitty?”

By way of an answer he vomits a hairball onto the hardwood floor.

I cringe, but when I look closer I can see the hairball consists mostly of long multi-colored fur that does not belong to big orange Bob or short-haired little Tesla.

I feel strangely triumphant for someone staring down at a puddle of cat vomit. “A-ha! So you’ve seen Gerasimus, at least. She _does_ exist.”

I was beginning to think Maglor was playing a joke on me.

 

***

 

Scooping food onto trays in an enormous room in the bowels of a church is not how I expected to be spending my weekend.

When Maglor invited me along with him to do volunteer work I hadn’t known what to expect.  

Now I’m effectively reminded that I’m not the only person with scars and sad stories to tell and it’s heartbreaking and illuminating all at once. Despite the heavy tread of those who seem like they might never pick themselves up again, there’s also so much dogged forward movement that it pulls me along with it at first.

There are greetings and shuffling and laughter, and I’m never surprised when I look up to see that Maglor is often at the center of it as he roams the floor, offering advice and companionship.

People smile and thank me as I pass out trays of food. Or they simply nod, or do nothing at all, accepting the food and wandering off to find a place to sit. A middle aged man in jeans and a business jacket that has seen better days thanks me and departs with a repeating chorus of “God bless.”

I tell myself that I feel good about helping, but as time wears on I start to feel that soul-deep weariness that heralds a depressive episode.

I take a break from cleaning up and wander over to where Maglor is talking to a young woman carrying a skinny child on her hip. Her eyes look like they’re sinking into her gaunt face, glistening and anxious, and she’s nodding at Maglor as he speaks to her.

When I get closer I hear him saying, “They should be able to get you set up somewhere safe until you can find more permanent housing. They can also help you find any other services you might qualify for.”

The woman looks lost, and the child she’s clutching stares at Maglor with a wary expression, as though he can’t decide if he’s a threat or not. There’s the faint trace of a bruise beneath one of his eyes.

“Alright?” Maglor asks, and the woman seems to come back to herself. Maglor smiles encouragingly.

“Yeah, thanks,” she says, beginning to nod again. “I’ll talk to them.”

She goes through the doorway that Maglor points out.

When she’s gone, I stand in front of Maglor where she had been moments before and let out a long sigh. Before everything went to shit, I had been studying with the intent of getting into social work and I’m suddenly very aware of how far I’ve been thrown off of my own path.

“So, how are you doing?” Maglor asks. He watches me in that riveted way of his, like he hopes to find my thoughts written on my face. And maybe they are.

“Fine.”

“Why don’t we go get some fresh air,” he says.

“Sure.” I draw the word out as though I’m not all that sure, but really I’m grateful for his suggestion.

He raises a hand to guide me to the exit, though he doesn’t touch me.

I never told him about how I don’t like to be touched—not until I’ve bonded deeply with someone, anyway—but since the first time he formally introduced himself and shook my hand he hasn’t made any physical contact with me. Except perhaps to steady me when we’re being jostled on the train, or brushing my hand when he takes something from me, but even then it’s fleeting.

I wonder if he somehow knows. I’ve seen him be very tactile with other people, and even as we make our way outside he shakes one man’s hand and claps another on the shoulder.

On the street a car honks and I glance nervously up and down the sidewalk at hurrying pedestrians, but Maglor leads me down the street to a small park with a few stone benches. He gives me a playfully disapproving look when I pull a face at the retreating back of the woman who stood up from the other end of the bench with an offended glare when we sat down.

I’m always baffled by people who seem churlish about sharing space in a city as crowded as this one. Even I have adapted, despite my occasional anxiety attacks.

“What do you think?” Maglor asks, once I start to feel more settled.

“It’s busy,” is all I can come up with, still feeling the effects of so much noise and so many people. “You do this often?”

“When I can.” He leans back, his slender form settling into a more relaxed posture. “I thought it might do you some good to get out of the apartment.”

We got out last weekend by going to see a movie, and I get out all the time to go grocery shopping and run errands, so I give him a skeptical look.

“Uh huh. This isn’t you trying to save my soul or something, is it?”

Even though I was deliberately trying to keep my tone joking I’m surprised by his first burst of laughter, then bewildered by the strength of his amusement. But then I notice the tightness around his pale eyes and realize that his smile is crooked, as though he’s trying to keep it from turning into something else.

He takes a deep breath and then says, “No, Alex. I’m not trying to save your soul.”

“Good.” I snort, relieved to see that the tightness in him has loosened.

But he looks thoughtful now, serious even.

“I don’t believe it works that way. I don’t think you can erase the bad things you’ve done simply by doing good things. The spirit can become scarred just as the body can, and it carries those scars forever. Nothing erases that.”

“Hmph. You’re usually so encouraging. I was expecting a pep talk.”

Maglor gives me a sly smile before going on. “It’s good to have purpose. I’m here. I exist. But being able to help others makes me feel like there’s a _reason_ I’m still here. I can help, and so I do.”

“You brought me here so I’d feel like I have a purpose?” I ask, giving him an incredulous look.

He shrugs. “I don’t know what it is that will make you feel like there’s a reason you’re here, I only know that there is a reason. I just hope you’ll be open to finding it.”

“And there’s the pep talk.”

He narrows his eyes at me, but his lips quirk for a moment. “Even if volunteering at a soup kitchen isn’t something you want to do on a regular basis, it’s still good to get out of your own bubble sometimes and be aware of others. It’s too easy for us to get trapped inside our own heads, to be consumed by our fears, to lose focus of everything around us, and…”

He suddenly looks troubled, and I regret teasing him.

“I get it. I do. I’m glad you brought me with you today.”

We watch the people going by, and after a few minutes he asks, “Do you want to go back in?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

As we go back down the steps toward the dining area I say, “This has been an interesting experience, at least.”

And he’s right, it did pull me out of my own head, at least for a while. As I collect trays and wipe down tables I wonder what it is I could do with my life that would make me feel as if I’m not as useless as I've always been told I am.

And I wonder how long it took Maglor to learn from all the mistakes he hints at having made and to find some sense of purpose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in this chapter, as well as some angst.

  
I want to shine on in the hearts of man  
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand  
Another head aches, another heart breaks  
I am so much older than I can take  
_– The Killers, These Things That I’ve Done_

 

“Why did you help me? What made you approach me that night?”

Maglor and I are sitting on the roof, a basket of snacks and a bottle of wine between us, as we look out over the city. This seems like the kind of thing that’s supposed to feel romantic, an impromptu rooftop picnic, but I’m grateful to note that it doesn’t at all. It’s so easy to be in Maglor’s presence, and in the months since moving in with him, his companionship has carried me through the kind of dark days that would have crushed me in the past.

Maglor takes a sip of wine before he answers. “You reminded me of myself.”

I make a huffing sound. “Really.”

He doesn’t mean physically, obviously. He’s tall, dark, and enigmatic, whereas I am a short, anxious, mess of a person. But I don’t think we have much in common in terms of personality either. Maglor always seems so poised and calm, and though he can be somber at times, he’s mostly optimistic and encouraging.

Maglor watches me now as though searching for something, and his eyes are unnervingly bright even in the dark.

“I wasn’t always the person I am now,” he finally says. “Essentially I am the same, but I have learned much and lost much, and that makes a difference in how one sees the world.”

I can tell he’s in one of his more open moods. When he’s like this it’s not so much that it seems he has taken his walls down, but that he simply forgot to put them up in the first place, or has forgotten what it is he wants to share and what he wants to keep to himself.

I decide to take advantage.

“How did you get that scar on your hand?”

I had noticed it not long after moving in, a very faint spidery tracing of scars on the palm of his right hand. I’m not generally in the habit of questioning people about their scars, having enough of my own, but this one intrigues me.

“I was burned. It happened a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I was very young, but old enough to know better.” His answer sounds final, and I know that’s all he’ll say on the topic.

I’d be worried that I angered him, but the corner of his mouth twitches up in one of his quick, wry half-smiles.

The wine must be going to my head though, because I can’t resist saying with theatrical flair, “Fine. Be all mysterious. Keep your secrets.”

Maglor laughs, full and bright.

 

***

 

I’m on a boat that one of Maglor’s friends owns, when I realize it.

Maglor is leaning over the rail, and when water sprays up and mists his face he throws his head back and laughs. The city skyline is dark against a sunset of blazing pink and orange, and as he turns to look at it, I swear I can feel his mood settle over me like a contented sigh.

His voice is so low that I barely hear it against the hum of the boat and the splashing of water when he says, “Nelyo, you should see this.”

He does that sometimes, talks to people who aren’t here, wishing they could see what he sees. And, I think, wishing they could feel what he feels in moments like this.

I’d worry, but he seems so at peace.

I want him to be happy. It’s been awhile since I let anyone get really close to me, but I realize that Maglor’s happiness is important to me. I know he feels the same way about me—his sincerity doesn’t leave room for doubt—and for a moment I feel a thrill of fear. It can be frightening becoming invested in someone, to make oneself vulnerable by loving someone who may very well hurt you one day.

But I’m certain Maglor’s friendship is worth the risk. He seems to accept and even admire all the parts of me that make me feel broken. I sometimes start to be believe all the encouraging words he offers when he looks at me like I’m complete and beautiful rather an actual human disaster.

“Come look,” Maglor calls, pulling me from my thoughts.

I join my friend at the rail and listen with a smile as he tells me the history of the area with descriptions as enthusiastic and colorful as if he’d seen it himself rather than read it in a dry history book.

His passion spreads to me, and for the length of our conversation I find myself seeing everything around me with new eyes.

 

***

 

After the first movie Maglor went to see with me, we made a twice monthly ritual of it. I’ve never seen anyone as fascinated by cinema as Maglor is. He reminds me of a little kid sometimes, watching the screen with unblinking eyes and slowly munching on his popcorn. Sometimes he turns to whisper to me, and I have to elbow him to shut him up when people start to glare at us.

Tonight there was hardly anyone else in the theater, luckily, so I listened to his running commentary with amusement.

We’re walking home from the subway stop, and though I’m wrapping my arms around myself and shivering, he looks perfectly comfortable. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his open coat and his scarf draped haphazardly over his shoulders as though it was thrown there as an afterthought.

It’s late, and the cold seems to have driven many people indoors, so the sidewalks look bare and eerie beneath the streetlights.

Maglor is humming the theme song of the movie we’ve just seen, and I’m about to tease him about it, when someone grabs my arm and pulls me into the narrow alley between two buildings.

My stomach lurches as a tall man wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me into a headlock, and I hear Maglor cry out as a second man lunges past us.

Time slows.

My heart pounds as I feel something sharp press into the fabric of my sweater at the base of my throat, and the world spins for a moment as I’m dragged further back where it’s darker. We’re being mugged or possibly worse, my brain tells me. The arm around me squeezes tighter so that I can’t breathe. It hurts and my eyes water as I try to get my fingers between his arm and my throat to loosen his hold.

As my vision blurs, I realize that he might actually kill me.

These things happen, I know.

Then things start to occur that don’t make sense.

Maglor lets out a piercing yell that vibrates off the walls around us, and for a moment I feel paralyzed. The man holding me goes rigid as well, falling sideways against a brick wall with me still in his grip.

Then there’s a blur of movement nearby, and when I look up the second attacker is turning a circle in the air. I see his feet spinning over his head in an almost graceful arc that some part of me, beneath all the terror, finds perversely amusing. Then the man hits the ground with a terrible thud and a pained grunt.

A moment later, the man holding me captive is ripped away, knocking me down as he goes.

I scramble back, boots skidding on the concrete, and desperately suck in painful gulps of air. I turn in time to see one man fleeing toward the street and the other, the hulking monster who had nearly crushed my throat, in Maglor’s grip. Maglor whips the man around with his arm twisted behind his back and then gives him a ferocious shove, sending him tumbling after his companion.

Maglor calls something after them in a language I don’t recognize, and the men both stumble even as a terrible chill goes through me.

And then we’re alone again.

I’m picking myself up when Maglor grabs me. He rarely touches me, but now his hands cup my face and the endless grey of his eyes is almost enough to distract me from his agonized expression.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” he asks, his voice trembling.

I’m in shock, I think, but after a few breaths I gasp out, “I’m fine. Not hurt.”

Which is a lie. My throat is throbbing with pain where the man’s arm had held me, and I think his knife must have nicked my collarbone because my skin feels wet and is starting to sting.

Maglor nods slightly but keeps watching me with that frantic expression, like he expects me to fall apart in his hands at any moment. Then he takes a long, shuddering breath and releases me, stepping back.

“Are _you_ ok?” I ask.

He doesn’t seem to hear, though, and strides back to where he threw one of the men on the ground, obviously searching for something. He squats down and picks something up, and when he stands and turns I see it’s a knife. He holds it like it’s foul and alive, and his expression is so twisted up and repulsed that for a moment I think he might vomit.

He goes over to a trash bin, lifts the lid and tosses the knife in, and then he shakes out his hands as he looks around one last time.

Without a word, he comes to me and leads me back out onto the street. There’s no sign of the men who attacked us, and Maglor doesn’t seem surprised by this at all. With an arm resting lightly across my back, he moves us toward home.

When we get closer to the apartment, he lets his arm drop, giving me space again, and when I turn to look at him as we walk my heart skips a beat.

His shoulders are heaving and his teeth are grit, but although his eyes are glassy, no tears fall. I’ve never seen someone look so enraged and so desolate at the same time.

“It’s alright. You’re alright,” he murmurs, though I can see it’s not me he’s trying to reassure. His lips curl into something like a snarl for a moment and he whispers, “Why…”

I want to tell him: _because these things happen. They always have and always will_. But I’m pretty sure he knows that already, so I shiver in the cold and keep my mouth shut.

Maglor is bristling with the kind of helpless, blood-curdling fury that I never thought to see in my gentle friend.

It makes my heart hurt.

 

***

 

Bob the cat is at the veterinarian where they’re keeping him overnight. Maglor is as close to an anxious mess as I’ve ever seen him in all the time I’ve known him.

The vet still isn’t certain what made Bob sick but suspects he ate something he shouldn’t have, so they’re giving him fluids and keeping an eye on him. Given that Bob will eat just about anything—and I’ve seen him vomit up some rather questionable things—I’m really not all that surprised.

Maglor has been distracted and snappish since we got back from the vet, so I’ve been mostly avoiding him, though I did creep into his office while he was looking out the window to leave some quiche and a cup of tea on his desk for him.

I’ve learned that Maglor often forgets to eat for long stretches of time, though I’m sure he must sneak meals in at some point or he’d starve. But I try to bring him food whenever he seems like he’s getting into one of these moods. I don’t know if he ate the food I left for him earlier, but I can still hear him pacing and moving things around.

It’s getting late when Maglor unexpectedly wanders out of his room.

At first I’m confused about why he’s cradling an armload of rags, but then he steps out of the dimly lit hallway and into the living room and I see he’s holding a long-haired cat.

“So that’s Gerasimus!”

The cat startles at my approach, squirming in Maglor’s arms and letting out a low growl. I can’t say I’m surprised that the ever-elusive Gerasimus has turned out to be an angry beast with a wildly swishing tail and murder in her eyes. When she turns and hisses at me with ears laid back, Maglor makes a gentle shushing noise and runs a soothing hand over her back.

Gerasimus settles in his arms, although she still watches me with suspicion.

“Wow, she’s charming,” I say.

“Once you earn her trust she’s friendly, in a grouchy sort of way.” He chuckles, scratching behind the cat’s ears, and I hear a grinding noise that might be the beginnings of a purr. “She actually reminds me of one of my brothers. He’s a bit grumpy and hard to get close to, but unfailingly loyal to those who manage it.”

“Hmmm.” It’s a noncommittal sound because I can’t imagine that this creature, who is glaring at me again even though I haven’t moved, is willing to have her trust earned. I’m only half-joking when I say, “Have you considered getting a dog?”

Maglor shrugs. “Perhaps, if I move out of the city again. I really hadn’t planned on getting any pets when I came here, but the cats were strays that needed help.”

“Where did you move here from?” I ask.

“I’ve moved around a lot, but before I came here I lived in Alaska.”

“Alaska! What did you do there?”

“I mostly just kept to myself.”

That’s not much of an answer, but I decide to abandon that angle and instead ask, “What made you decide to move there?”

“It can be hard—” He cuts off, looking confused, but continues a moment later. “Sometimes, when people go out of your life, you need to be on your own for a while. To let yourself grieve away from the things that remind you of those who have left you. I may have isolated myself a bit, but it was what I needed at the time.”

“But then you moved here.”

“Yes.” Maglor smiles down at Gerasimus, who is drifting off under the gentle petting. “I began to fear that I would become like a ghost if I allowed my focus to remain as it was, turned inward. So I moved here and began to live again.”

I think of Maglor at the soup kitchen, warning me of the dangers of becoming trapped in one’s own head. I think of him greeting and being greeted by the people in our neighborhood, the way their eyes light up when they see him. I think about his music, the way people seem compelled to stop and listen when he plays, and the way their rapt attention seems to carry him forward.

I can easily imagine a Maglor who hides himself away and embraces solitude, and yet it is _this_ Maglor, the one who is so invested in the world around him, who has become my friend.

“It’s good you moved here.” I can’t resist throwing a bit of the speech he gave me at the soup kitchen back at him and add, “It’s good to get out of your own bubble sometimes and be aware of other people.”

Maglor gives me an almost mischievous smile.

Gerasimus is dozing peacefully in his arms now, and I’m wondering if I can get away with petting her when the paws draped over Maglor’s arm twitch threateningly. I decide I’d better not.

I give Maglor a speculative look. “I still think you should consider getting a dog.”

“I think the cats are enough for now.” He looks amused for a moment, but then his face falls.

“Bob will be fine. They’re just keeping him as a precaution,” I assure him. Knowing he’ll spend the night worrying if I don’t distract him, I ask, “Hey, want to watch a movie or something?”

He considers, then sighs. “Alright. But only if you let me pick the movie.”

He’s walking to the DVD tower when I hear him mutter, “I’m not watching anything with god-forsaken _elves_ in it again.”

I shrug to myself. “What’s wrong with elves? I like elves.”

Maglor turns and gives me a look as if I’ve kicked a puppy and burped the alphabet all at the same time.

I throw my hands up in defeat. “Ok, fine. No elves.”

 

***

 

I haven’t seen Maglor all day, and when I get home in the evening toting shopping bags on each arm, the apartment is dark and still.

At first I think that Maglor must be out, but then I hear the scraping of a drawer opening and closing. I put away the groceries and carry my other purchases to my room. Maglor has convinced me that I should go back to college and though I’ve agreed, I’m not feeling overly confident about the decision. The shopping trip was a pleasant distraction at least, even if it didn’t soothe my worries.

I dump the bags on my bed before going to Maglor’s open door, keeping my footsteps quiet. The room is dark, but a chink of light through the curtains illuminates Maglor’s outline where he stands before the window.

I hear the scratch of a match, and a tiny flame illuminates his face.

He must be at least peripherally aware of me, but I can see he’s intent on whatever he’s doing, trapped in his own thoughts.

Across the console table beneath his window, tealights are lined in a row. Seven of them.

“Telvo. Pityo,” he says, lighting two candles.

Maglor has some odd habits, but I’ve never seen him do anything like this, and I feel both anxious and sad for some reason.

“Curvo.” He lights another. “Moryo. Tyelko.” Two more flames flicker to life, and Maglor pauses as though gathering himself. He lights the final two candles, and there’s a faint tremor in his voice when he says, “Nelyo. Atar.”

He blows out the match and sits on the edge of his bed, watching the little flames dance in the dark of his room.

I stay still for a few long moments, waiting to see if he’ll do something or at least acknowledge me, but when he remains silent I ask, “What are you doing?”

His body tenses for a moment, then sags. “My older brother used to do this. It made me so angry at the time.”

His voice sounds hollow and part of me wants to back out of the room and leave him to his dark mood, but my curiosity holds me there. And, if I’m being honest, I’m worried about him.

“Why? What does it mean?”

“He did it to remind himself what we were facing.”

I’m used to him doing this, giving me short, vague answers, but right now I’m nervous and starting to feel a bit annoyed by his reticence. I come around the bed so I can see his profile.

“And what were you facing?”

He sighs, though it’s faint as a whisper. “Darkness. An end, terrible and final.”

“Well, that’s…morbid.” I shift around awkwardly, trying to decide if it would be better to try to draw him out of his gloomy contemplation or leave him be, as he watches the flames. “But you’re talking about death, aren’t you? We’re all going to die one day.”

“There are things worse than the death of the body.”

I’m surprised when before I can get another question in, he goes on without prompting. “He’d watch the flames until they burned out, and then he’d sit in the dark. They were just little stubs of candles, so they didn’t have long. The last time he did it, I stormed out and he panicked when he couldn’t find me. If he ever did it again after that he was careful to keep it from me.”

“He sounds like he was troubled.”

Maglor nods, still watching the candles. “We all were.”

I’m truly concerned now, dread sending a shiver through me.

Though he doesn’t quite turn his head toward me, Maglor’s lean body shifts a little. As if to reassure me, he says, “It’s different now. These candles will burn longer and I won’t be sitting in darkness when they go out.”

I don’t feel reassured. I won’t judge a man for whatever odd little rituals help him cope, but I can’t imagine what happened to him to put this haunted look on his face.

“I’ll stay here and remember, just tonight,” he says in a voice so low I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me anymore.

The sound my throat makes when I swallow is loud in the silence that follows, and I turn and make for the door to escape the ghosts that seem to be gathering in the room. I stop before I reach the hall and turn back to him, watching the way the candlelight burns bright against the edges of his silhouette.

I hate to leave him alone like this, but somehow it doesn’t feel right to stay.

“Let me know if you need anything. Please.”

He doesn’t answer and I go to my room, easing my door shut behind me. After a moment I turn back and open the door, just a crack.

I’m sitting on my bed in my pajamas when Bob nudges past the open door and jumps up next to me. He settles down, kneading my comforter, and I give him a scratch under his chin.

I’m glad he’s decided to keep me company. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

 

***

 

It’s too beautiful a day to keep the windows shut, so I’ve opened all the ones in the apartment that aren’t stuck closed.

I’m in the kitchen organizing Maglor’s pantry cabinet to distract myself from the paper I should be writing for school, when I hear him curse and grumble something that I don’t quite catch.

In the dining room I find him standing in front of an open window, his hands on his hips.

This window doesn’t have a screen and perched on the window sill is a bird. A rather fierce looking bird with a black beak and wicked looking talons. Its chest is a cream color speckled with darker brown, and its sleek back is a beautiful blue-grey color.

“Is that a falcon?” I ask.

Maglor turns and I nearly step back when I see how he’s glaring. He doesn’t acknowledge my question though, turning back to the window and waving his hands at the bird.

“Shoo! Get out of here!”

The bird flaps its wings and cocks its head at him, but it doesn’t leave. It turns its head this way and that, and I get the distinct feeling that the creature is examining me. Whatever it thinks of me, it loses interest quickly and turns a beady eye back on Maglor, spreading its wings as if it means to fly into the apartment.

“No! Absolutely not!” Maglor yells at the bird. He grabs a newspaper off the table next to him and rolls it up. He edges closer to the window and threatens the bird with it, crying, “Get out of here! Mind your own business.”

The bird lets out a screeching call as if in protest, but when Maglor jumps forward and swats the window sill with the newspaper, the bird flings itself back in a flurry of flapping wings and then soars away.

“Unbelievable. Even now...” Maglor slams the window shut and then turns and runs a hand through his hair. “Nosy, persistent…”

Maglor trails off when he sees me watching him, my mouth hanging open and both eyebrows raised in an expression that I hope conveys the sentiment, _what the hell was that?_

A moment later I decide communication is key and I ask, “What the hell was that?”

He looks evasive, refusing to meet my gaze. “A peregrine falcon, I believe.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t say.”

Maglor throws the newspaper back on the table and ruffles his hair into total disarray with his fussing. When I realize he’s going to leave it at that and go to his room, I move to stand in front of him.

“You said ‘persistent.’ Should I stock our kitchen with some kind of bird-of-prey treats? Does this happen often?”

“No. Well, often enough,” Maglor says, rubbing at the back of his neck now as if it pains him. “And definitely no bird treats. Don’t encourage them.”

“No, of course not,” I shake my head. “No treats. We don’t want to encourage the falcons.”

Maglor walks around me, and though I’m tempted say something more, the tense set of his shoulders stops me. Maglor is a kind and patient person but sometimes, on bad days, I get the feeling that he could explode into a fiery temper if prodded just right.

Since I can’t trust myself not to say something sarcastic, I keep silent until I hear his door close and then I say to Tesla, who is watching me from the doorway, “Amazing. Certainly not the weirdest thing that’s happened since I moved in here, but amazing.”

 

***

 

I’m not depressed. Or at least I don’t think I am. Depression is tricky that way; it can sneak up on you and hover for weeks or months before you realize just what’s casting that damn shadow over your life. I am worried about my upcoming internship and about school in general, but that’s nothing new.

The picnic was Maglor’s idea, of course. And though Central Park can feel like an oasis sometimes, right now I can’t stop casting anxious glances at the other people who are enjoying this fine day with a lot more enthusiasm than I am. I am sprawled out on the blanket Maglor brought, with one arm under my head and the other shading my eyes even though we’re not in the sun.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud,” I grumble.

Maglor looks down at me with that mystified look that is one of his most endearing habits. He always seems genuinely confused when the people he cares about don’t love themselves as much as he loves them.

“Why do you say that?” he asks.

“Look at me.” The way his eyes scan me as though searching for and failing to find a flaw nearly sidetracks me, but I push on, “I just walk around now like a well-adjusted, healthy person. I go shopping. Smile and greet people. I go to school. Go on _picnics_.”

“Is there a reason you shouldn’t be doing these things?”

“I don’t know. I mean,” I bite my lip and sit up a little, resting on my elbows, “I’m a god-awful mess inside. I’ve had all this messed up shit happen to me, and I’ve got scars. Emotional ones and real physical ones. And I’m still in pain all the time—god, some days I ache all over. Yet I walk around like I’m not a god-awful mess and people believe it.”

“We are not made less by the things that are done to us.” Maglor is wearing the resolute look that I know means he really wants what he’s saying to be understood and accepted. “It is our own choices that diminish us. That is why we must learn from the misfortunes that befall us, so that there is wisdom in our choices. So that we don’t lose ourselves in the mire of our fears.”

“And what if we do lose ourselves? Sometimes I feel like I can’t come back from it. From everything that has happened to me, I mean.”

“You can.” Maglor looks intense now, and I get the feeling that I’ve touched on something he has grappled with himself.

“You’re so certain.”

“I am. I have to be.” Maglor isn’t looking at me now, instead staring down at his hands clasped in his lap. “What kind of world would it be if the good in us couldn’t survive all of life’s adversity? How cruel would it be if those who have fallen low could never pick themselves back up again, no matter how deeply they felt the desire to heal and do better, to do good? Should they be punished forever?”

He turns back to me as if seeking an answer and he looks heartbreakingly earnest. I suddenly feel the need to draw the conversation back to myself, not because I’m more concerned with my own inner turmoil, but because I want draw his attention away from whatever is causing the usually faint frown lines of his face to deepen.

“But I can’t just…” I’m struggling to form words when I suddenly realize what the date is, and what has been niggling at my mind for nearly a week now. Two days from now it will be four years since my ex took his own life. I try not to think about it, about him, but he always comes back to haunt me around this time.

I take a deep breath and say, “I feel like I should have done more. That I could have helped the people who needed help if I had tried a little harder. If I hadn’t been so caught up in my own personal drama.”

It’s obvious Maglor knows exactly what I’m thinking of. The lines smooth from his face, though his eyes remain heavy. “No. You can’t make yourself responsible for what others do to themselves. You are responsible for your own life, your own choices, not anyone else’s, no matter how much it may feel otherwise.”

“I know that’s true. I mean, it makes sense. But try telling my brain that.”

Maglor cracks a smile, if a faint one. “I am trying.”

A couple of young men throwing a frisbee back and forth move closer and we watch them leap and dash to catch it until they move farther away again. But now I’m thinking about the people who have gone from my life, and I feel like I need something to anchor me.

Maglor startles a little when I turn to him without warning, and ask, “What do you think happens when we die?”

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he regroups and gives me a considering look. “I think your spirit goes on after you die. I think you rise up and see not with your eyes but with your entire being, and the light you perceive is many-colored and splendid. Then, when you are ready, I think you move on to whatever comes next, beyond all of this.”

I’m shocked into silence, but only for a moment.

“Huh. ‘Many-colored.’” I snort. “Who talks like that?”

Maglor seems pleased by my teasing, as he often does. He knows I’m deflecting.

I want to say more. I know I need to just come out and say it, and so I finally do. “I’m glad you found me that night on the beach.”

Maglor gives me the full strength of a genuine smile, the kind that makes me feel dizzy with gladness, and says, “Me too.”

 

***

 

I’m sitting on the couch writing in the journal my therapist insisted I keep, when there’s a knock on the front door. Maglor prefers to greet his rare visitors himself whenever he’s home, so I don’t bother getting up.

I’ve got earbuds in, but I’ve gone through my writing playlist and I’m currently listening to nothing, so I hear it when Maglor softly pads down the hall and the front door creaks open.

After a few moments I hear a man’s voice say, “Makalaurë.”

My interest is immediately piqued because I’ve heard people call him Maglor, or Mister Makalaurë, but never simply Makalaurë. And never said with quite so much familiarity and warmth.

“May I come in?” the mystery man inquires with an accent I can’t place. “Surely you’ll at least invite me in for tea.”

I don’t hear Maglor’s answer, but eventually the door bangs closed, and I see their shadows in the hallway as the two of them go into the kitchen.

Cupboards slam, and I hear the angry clink of ceramic being set down a little too hard.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

I’m startled by Maglor’s voice. It sounds different, biting, and I’m glad he’s never used that tone with me. I can’t imagine making myself comfortable in response to that, but I know his guest is taking a seat at the island when I hear the scraping of a stool being moved over the tile.

For a while I hear the low murmur of conversation broken only by the sounds of the kettle whistling and tea being prepared. I try to focus on the pen in my hand and the words I wanted to get onto the page, but my mind is buzzing with curiosity.

“Why are you here?” Maglor’s voice rises, and though he doesn’t sound exactly angry, I can tell that he’s not happy.

“You know why,” the stranger answers cheerfully.

“I mean—” Maglor cuts off and I can almost feel his irritation from the living room, like an electric prickle along the surface of my skin. “Why did they send _you_? Why not...”  

I’m on edge now, but the stranger’s lilting voice rings out in that same musical way Maglor’s does when he’s in high spirits. Though I know I shouldn’t even be listening to this, I wiggle the earbuds until they’re just barely resting in my ear and I can hear a little better.

“Ah! Yes. Because Elrond had already tried and failed to persuade you, which he is not happy about, by the way. But mostly because they trust me. And also because I asked to come.” After only a brief silence he goes on, “I have been having the most wonderful time. I’ve already made friends here and—”

“Of course you have.” Maglor sounds affectionate now, his earlier irritation gone.

“They’ve been showing me around. It’s a very interesting city.”

I’m not even pretending to write in my journal now, my therapy be damned. My pen has fallen out of my hand and rolled between the couch cushions, but I ignore it.

“How is my English?” the stranger asks suddenly.

“Excellent.”

“Oh, good.”

I scoot to the edge of the couch and then lean over the edge, trying to get a glimpse of whoever is the owner of this ridiculously chipper voice, but I sit up straight again when Maglor lets out a sharp sigh.

“Why don’t we get to the point. Say what you have to say so that I can give you my answer—which is a resounding ‘no’—and then we can both get back to our lives.”

“Come back with me.”

“No.”

I hear the scrape of a chair being pushed back and then Maglor goes on, “I am glad to see you, and we’ll certainly spend some time together before you leave, but I am staying here. This is my home now. It has been for a very long time.”

“You don’t belong here on your own. You belong with your family.”

“My _family_?”

My heart skips a beat when I hear the noise Maglor makes, a choking laugh that turns into something like a sob.

I hear the stranger say “Yes,” but then his voice lowers and I can’t catch what he says, though I’m certain it’s not in English. The apartment goes quiet, and in the stillness tension swells to an almost painful fullness before Maglor speaks again.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You’re being stubborn,” the stranger says. I hear the clink of a mug being set down and more scraping across the tiles. “Everything has changed. The people you wronged have moved on and have been living happily for _ages,_ and yet you stay here alone because you’re determined to remain in exile even if it’s self-imposed.”

“I’m not alone. I have Alex.”

I’m so caught up in their conversation, leaning eagerly forward, that I nearly fall off the couch at the mention of my name. I scramble for my pen and open my journal again so it looks like I’m busy at something other than eavesdropping, but they don’t come into the living room. The stranger does shift just enough that I catch of glimpse of golden hair through the archway, though.

“Yes, but for how long?” The stranger’s voice is low and a heavy sadness that seems to come from outside of me sweeps through me.

But a part of me wants to storm the kitchen and confront this stranger because although I will move out eventually, Maglor is my friend and I have no intention of leaving him. I can picture us visiting each other when we’re old and grey, me grouching about the weather and Maglor still rescuing strays.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Maglor says.

And although I had been hoping that Maglor would assume I was listening to music and so couldn’t hear them, I get the distinct feeling that he is perfectly aware that I’ve been listening.

“Very well. Will you introduce me to your friend at least?”

“Alright. They’re in here.”

I can tell by the shifting of Maglor’s voice that he’s moving through the kitchen toward the living room. I stare down at my open journal and the few sentences I have scribbled down that now seem like gibberish, and I don’t look up until Maglor calls my name.

I yank out the earbuds and clamber to my feet.

Maglor’s guest is very, very pretty. His eyes are pale blue and even brighter than Maglor’s, and his silky golden hair is pulled back into a messy bun on the back of his head. He’s tall and thin like Maglor, maybe a little shorter, but not quite so gaunt. And he moves with a buoyant lightness that is very unlike Maglor’s more graceful yet ponderous movements.

While Maglor reminds me of moonlight, looking at this person is a bit like staring into the sun.

“Alex, I’d like you to meet someone.”

The stranger steps forward with a friendly little wave to draw my attention to him. As If I could be paying attention to anything else with him standing in front of me.

“Hello, I’m Maglor’s cousin—”

“Finn. This is Finn.” Maglor interrupts at the same time his guest says, “Findaráto.”

I grin and nod, understanding why Maglor jumped to give me a nickname. I sometimes tease him about his own name, and Findaráto sounds like something out of an old western movie. As if Maglor knows my thoughts, he gets that look he has whenever he’s amused but making a valiant effort not to let it show, though I do notice that his hands are shaking as he shoves them into his pockets.

“Finn is fine, too,” Findaráto says, giving Maglor a questioning look.

But then Findaráto’s attention is focused solely on me, and though I know it can’t possibly be true, he seems even more fascinated by me than I am by him. He clutches his hands in front of his chest as if he’s trying to keep himself from reaching out, and his eyes are round and alert.

Maglor looks between us and I could swear he’s about to roll his eyes. He doesn’t though, he simply turns to Findaráto and says, “Why don’t you come back another time? I have plans today that I really can’t cancel.”

“Not a problem,” Findaráto quickly assures him. “Just let me know when you’re both free and we can get together for drinks or a meal.”

Looking resigned, Maglor nods and starts herding his golden-haired cousin toward the door. “Yes. What an excellent idea.”

“I’ll give you my number. My friend Evan helped me pick this out. Isn’t it quaint?” Findaráto is holding the cell phone he just slipped out of his back pocket and tapping at the screen. They’re nearly to the door when he whips back around to say, “It was nice meeting you, Alex. I’ll see you again soon.”

By the time I stammer out my own goodbye Maglor has already opened the front door and ushered him out. Maglor goes out behind him and closes the door, presumably to speak with him more privately.

I feel like I’ve learned a little more about Maglor only to have it present me with a hundred new questions about him.

I’ll have to see what I can get out of him later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My art for this story can be found [here](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/163918287218/modern-maglor-and-finrod-for-my-fic-many-colored), on my tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

 

I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
_— The Killers, All These Things That I’ve Done_

 

The dream feels distant, as though it’s not really mine. I sink into it slowly, until I’m seeing through someone else’s eyes, feeling more strength in this vigorous borrowed body than I could ever feel in my own.

I’m not sure who I am, though when I look down at my hands they’re stained the rusty brown of dried blood. There are others here with me, and they are vague outlines that glow softly in the mist, lit from within by little flames. When they draw nearer I feel their warmth, though I still can’t make out their faces.

There are too many shadows to see them clearly. But they are familiar, so dear to me that I know I would do anything to save them from the threatening darkness. I whisper words I don’t understand, weaving my love around them like an invisible barrier, and I hope it will be enough.

Their flames flare brighter, and in their light I see a little clearer.

The Shadow is approaching from behind, its nature a terrible unknown even to us. It billows along the ground like a cloud blown by wind, though it looks as thick as tar. It moves steadily toward us, but we turn our faces from it, searching ahead for our salvation.

When we see the Light glimmering in the distance, we charge toward it as one. We move with the force of a storm, and the flames around me flare with the lightning flashes of our determination.

The Light is near now, brilliant as a star, but we slam into resistance with a crash like thunder. We waver, but the Shadow behind drives us onward, the promise of its cold, eternal embrace feeding our desperation.

But those who resist us are also lit by flame, and though some are extinguished others lash out at the ones I hold dear. Weapons clash and blood is spilled as the battle rages. The keepers of the Light do not surrender, fighting fiercely to keep possession of that which we seek. They cut down the ones I love. I feel them go, one after the other, falling into darkness.

I am failing. I am failing them.

I know we must reach the Light if we are to have any chance, but it’s moving away too quickly now, being carried off. In a frenzy those of us who are left fight, struggling toward the Light even as it soars out into the sky where we can’t follow.

The Shadow is closing in, and I feel tears hot on my cheeks as I call the names of those who can’t answer.

The Light is safe, at least, though we are not.

“Please, don’t do this,” I beg, speaking both to the ones so desperately seeking the light and to the ones snatching it away. I can see the edges of my room even though shadows still obscure my vision.

The nightmare is fading and I feel like I’m slipping back into my own head.

I open my eyes wider and see my bedroom in Maglor’s apartment, and though my own voice seems to echo in my head, the silence around me is absolute.

I take deep breaths as I slowly come back to myself. Noises begin to filter into my awareness; the thumping bass of music down the street, the rattle of one of the cats chasing something across the floor, the pounding of my own heart.

I sit up and sigh, trying to decide if I should attempt to go back to sleep or get up and make myself a pot of coffee. 5am is too early a start for me, but then I don’t relish the idea of lying awake for hours with visions from that nightmare still flashing in my head.

So much loss. So much guilt and fear and misery. What brought that on?

When I hear Maglor banging around in the kitchen, I toss the blankets off of me and slide out of bed. I pull on thick socks, throw a baggy sweater on over my tank top, and pad down the hallway toward all the light and noise.

Maglor has put a kettle on the stove and he’s leaning back heavily against the counter with his hands pressed to his face. He rubs at his eyes and then looks up at me, his face ashen and grim.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I realize that he must think he woke me up with his noise, and I shrug. “It’s fine. I was already up.”

He gives me an odd look, his brow furrowing, then goes to a cupboard and pulls out two mugs. He pauses as though remembering something, before gesturing at me with one of the mugs.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks. “I’ve got a calming blend. It will help you sleep.”

I slide onto one of the stools at the island. “Tea sounds good. Though maybe not a calming blend. Can you brew me something that will make me bug-eyed with energy?”

I’m pleased to see that the skin around Maglor’s eyes crinkles when he smiles.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

If it’s odd the way he thanks me with such genuine warmth once we’re sitting together with our steaming mugs in our hands, I choose not to notice.

 

***

 

“Oh, this is—” I clutch a hand to my chest. “You’re braiding each other’s hair. This is too sweet.”

Maglor looks like he might want to throw something at me, perhaps the brush in the hand not holding onto little golden braids, but Findaráto turns his head as much as Maglor’s grip on his hair allows and beams at me.

“Hello, Alex.”

“Hey, Finn. You look lovely.”

Refusing to acknowledge the teasing in my voice, or unaware of it, he replies, “Thank you.”

But then, he must know that he does indeed look lovely. I could dress him in a potato sack and he’d pose and smile and still manage to look like a runway model, damn him. Potato-sack man-dresses would be a fad in no time.

Maglor doesn’t quite smile, though he seems more contented than I’ve seen him in a while.

I noticed Maglor was becoming depressed a few weeks ago. He grew more and more unresponsive, and when he started spending days at a time in his room I really started to worry. I assumed that he must have been coming out to eat after I went to bed, but given how much weight he’s lost, I’m not entirely sure now.

I tried to cheer him up but that only made him more withdrawn.

Then, as though summoned by magic, Findaráto showed up.

When I opened the door to find him standing on the welcome mat with a suitcase in hand, I thought that Maglor must have invited him. When Maglor was drawn from his room by the sound of Findaráto’s gregarious greeting, the expression on his face told a different story, though.

Findaráto has been here for over a week now. I offered him my bed at first, but he wouldn’t hear of it and had insisted that the couch would be fine, if he felt the urge to sleep (which he spoke of as though it was something optional).

Findaráto eventually did what I couldn’t, as he seems to have no fear of Maglor’s rare fiery outbursts, and he beat back Maglor’s dark mood with the sheer bull-headed force of his cheer.

Maglor looks more like himself today. And though he’s still pretending that he’s indifferent about having Findaráto as a houseguest, I see right through it. I’ve noticed the way Maglor’s eyes follow him as though he can’t quite believe he’s here and the way he broods when Findaráto goes out.

Maglor is now twisting and braiding the smaller braids into a larger and more elaborate one that looks like it should have required a lengthy instruction manual to complete. I stand behind him and watch as he secures the end and then smooths his fingers over his handiwork.

“What brought this on?” I ask, gesturing to Findaráto’s hair.

Findaráto reaches back to feel the braid, then turns around to say, “We were reminiscing.”

“Reminiscing? So you used to braid hair a lot?”

Maglor hums an affirmative. “It was a long time ago.” For a moment it seems that’s all he’ll say, but he sees my expectant expression and goes on, “When my younger brothers were little I often braided their hair. And I braided my older brother’s hair after—”

“What’s in the bag?” Findaráto interrupts, nodding at the sack I had forgotten I was holding.

“Oh. I was going to make dinner for all of us. Unless you guys have other plans. Or have already eaten. Which is fine.”

“We don’t have plans,” Findaráto quickly assures me. “What are you making?”

“Spinach and cheese ravioli, garlic bread, and salad.” It briefly occurs to me that I had been interested in what Maglor was saying, but then Findaráto is herding me into the kitchen and setting out the ingredients I bought on the counter.

Though at first I welcome Findaráto’s presence, I quickly start to feel overwhelmed by his help. He chops the tomatoes I give him with a swift deftness that is alarming to watch, and the constant stream of questions he asks wears me down because, no, I don’t know what farm the vegetables came from, and no, I don’t know in precisely which region this dish originated.

“So how did you come by this recipe?” Findaráto asks.

“I don’t…I really…I don’t remember where I learned it.” Almost immediately after my stuttering response I recall that I found the recipe online, but I’m too flustered to say so. Findaráto is watching me with that enthralled expression of his that makes it seem like he is deeply interested in every word that comes out of my mouth.

I swear, sometimes I think he might actually be from another planet.

Findaráto blinks and then laughs, but before I can question him about what he finds so funny, Maglor loudly clears his throat and we both turn.

Maglor is leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking as though he’s trying a little too hard to maintain an air of indifference.

His lips quirk a little when he says, “Finn, why don’t you come keep me company? I’m sure Alex will be able to get dinner finished more quickly if you aren’t in here asking a thousand questions.”

“A thousand,” Findaráto huffs. “But alright, fine. Let me know if you need any help, though.”

This last he says to me over his shoulder as he follows Maglor back into the living room. Silence briefly descends upon the kitchen, until it’s pleasantly broken by the sound of a guitar being idly strummed and low voices.

I’m leaning over the stove and starting to feel lost in thought when Maglor’s voice draws me back.

“You worry too much.”

“Hardly!” Findaráto sounds annoyed. When he goes on his voice is a little quieter. “We thought you would fade, you know.”

They’re speaking loud enough that I don’t feel guilty overhearing, but they often speak so cryptically that it doesn’t make a difference if I can make out what they’re saying or not. I’ve become convinced that it’s a code that Maglor secretly hopes I will one day break. Though if that’s true, I don’t know why he doesn’t just come out and say what he wants to say.

“No. There were times when I felt like a ghost, and I thought of how easy it would be to just let myself go, but then something always held me here.”

“Something?”

“People.” I can hear the smile in Maglor’s voice. “The world is such an interesting place, isn’t it? I suppose at first just I wanted to see what would happen, so I stayed. And things always happened.”

“I can see how that kept you going. Still, it must be difficult for you, since—”

Realizing I’ve gone still and the sauce I’m heating is bubbling merrily, I turn down the heat and give it a stir. I don’t catch the end of Findaráto’s sentence, or what he says after, but I hear Maglor’s response once I’ve got things on the stove under control.

“Sometimes, yes. They grow, they change, and yet they make the same mistakes again and again.” Maglor’s voice rises and falls and I can picture him gesturing with his hands as he does when he feels strongly about something. “It’s frustrating at times, but I can’t turn away. I don’t want to.”

“I understand, but…” Findaráto says something too quiet for me to make out and Maglor says “I know,” in a tone I can’t gauge the meaning of.

The timer on the counter rings shrilly and I nearly jump out of my skin. I grab a pot holder and as I pull the garlic bread out of the oven, I hear Findaráto say, “I think dinner is nearly finished. I’ll set the table and you go help Alex bring the food out. Or maybe we should take it on the roof?”

Maglor says something in the negative and then comes into the kitchen, chuckling.

I wonder what Findaráto meant when he said he’d been worried Maglor would “fade,” but I think I can guess. I’ve seen enough to know that life has a way of draining the vitality out of people and leaving them hollowed out shadows of themselves.

Maglor grabs the salad, Findaráto gathers up the dishes and silverware, and they both go back out into the dining room while I search for a plate to transfer the garlic bread to.

I’m glad the people Maglor has met in his life have given him the strength to keep going. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t been around to find me when I was at the end of my rope.

And here I am now, still struggling but for once in my life feeling optimistic about my future. I hope that I can put something good back out into the world, maybe help someone who needs help like I needed it. I think of Maglor finding me that night, and it makes me wonder how far one act of kindness and compassion can spread, how many lives it ends up touching.

I pause over the stove, taking a deep breath. I’m still so tired at times, and on bad days the constant struggle forward can seem futile. But on my better days I like to imagine that the good we do goes on forever, spreading out like rays of light to illuminate whatever it touches. I try to picture it, and in my mind little lights burn in the endless dark like stars.

I don’t feel so alone or irrelevant, gazing up at this starscape in my mind.

I wonder if Maglor ever sees it that way, too, if that’s why he’s so adamant about the importance of carrying on.

“Yes,” Maglor says, taking the plate of bread from me.

“What?”

For a moment Maglor looks as startled as I feel, but then he seems to shake it off and says, “I thought you asked me something.”

“No, I didn’t say anything,” I tell him, though I’m doubting myself.

But then Findaráto is next to me, gathering up cloth napkins and loudly demanding wine.

I still feel a little tired, but my emotions settle into contentment as we all sit down at the table.

 

***  


“I can’t do this.”

I shove the book on Dialectical Behavior Therapy away and let my head thunk down against the table in front of me. My notes and various books are scattered around me, and although I’ve been studying for hours, I don’t feel like I’ve absorbed anything.

I once teased Maglor that he must have a special internal radar to detect and seek out people who are suffering, and I think of this again as I hear his voice down the hall.

“Alex?”

“What?” Though I open my eyes so that I’m staring at the dark wood grain of the dining room table, I don’t lift my head.

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Can I help?” His voice is closer now, at my side.

“No.”

The air in the room seems to change, and though I don’t know why, I suddenly imagine a displeased cat fluffing itself up. I lift my head and Maglor doesn’t exactly look fluffed up, though he’s obviously agitated and is wringing his hands.

“Fine. Come help.” I can’t keep a hint of sarcasm from slipping into my tone, but naturally Maglor ignores it as he sits down at the table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. When he sees the look on my face he says, “Or we could go get ice cream.”

“No, thank you.” I laugh. I know he’s thinking of our recent visit to the new ice cream parlor that opened in our neighborhood and my overly enthusiastic response to the sundae I had ordered.

And just like that, just from wanting so badly to cheer me up, Maglor makes me feel a little less like a steaming pile of dog crap. I’m still stressed though, and I shake my head as I try to think of a way to express what I’m feeling.

“I’m tired,” I start. I sigh and gesture at my notes. “This feels pointless. Even if I do manage to scrape by with a passing grade, what will I really have to offer when I’m done with all this?”

“It’s not pointless.”

“Yeah…” I smack my lips. “As great of an argument as that is, I’m not convinced.”

I know Maglor knows me well enough to interpret that the way I really mean it and to give me the comfort I will never admit to needing, and he does.

“You have a lot to offer. Regardless of what you think about your academic prowess—and I do think you’re underestimating yourself there—you have gifts that will allow you to excel in in ways that can really make a difference.”

“What gifts are those?” I’m aiming for incredulity, but I’m also curious what Maglor sees in me that I don’t.

“You’re observant and you understand people.”

“I don’t understand _you_ ,” I blurt out.

Maglor gives me an impish smile before going on. “For the sake of argument, let’s say that I don’t count.”

“For the sake of argument. Sure.” If I’m being fair to myself, most people would probably consider Maglor to be a bit of a puzzle.

“You are intelligent and intuitive, and what you understand about how people work will help you to help them. And although you like to pretend otherwise, you are a deeply compassionate person. You are very well-suited to work in a field where you’ll be dealing with people who need encouragement, support, and advice.”

After a long pause I nod slowly and say, “Wow. I sound pretty amazing.”

“And you also use humor to deflect when you’re feeling overwhelmed by any kind of emotion.”

“Ass,” I mutter, though I have to fight not to smile.

Maglor grows thoughtful. “I have travelled all the world and I have never met another person like you.”

I give him a wry smile. “So, I’m special, huh?”

He laughs. “Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Have you never marveled at the fact that the world is populated by billions of people and no two are exactly alike?”

“What about identical twins?” I ask with a smirk, trying to keep the mood light now that I’m feeling marginally better.

He changes then, his eyes lighting up even as his presence seems to sink inward and grow smaller. “Each person walks their own path, and the decisions they make shape who they become. Though twins may share a bond, they are each…” He swallows hard, lifting a hand to push his hair back, a gesture I know means he’s distressed. “I think…”

“What is it?”

“I think I should rest. I am fatigued.”  He smiles weakly and stands up, then casts a look at the mess of books and papers scattered on the table. “But promise me you’ll take a break soon. You’ve been studying for hours.”

“Sure. In a minute, I think.”

He nods and goes to his room, and after staring blankly at the book in front of me for a little while longer, I get up go to the front door. I put on a light jacket and after stuffing my keys into the inner pocket I make my way down the stairs.

I suppose it won’t kill me to get some fresh air.

By the time I reach the sidewalk I’m determined to come back with something that will perk Maglor up. But in the meantime, I hope he gets some rest.

 

***

 

The hall closet is a dusty disaster.

Maglor has enlisted my help in finding the Dremel rotary tool kit that he swears is in one of his closets. He randomly got the urge to buy a set of wine glasses so he could engrave them with a flowery design inspired by etched glass he saw while we were passing a fancy home furnishing store.

I find it charming how excited he gets about new projects, but I’m starting to regret encouraging him as I survey the closet.

I can’t believe the crap that Maglor has managed to cram into so small a space, and I curse as an avalanche of magazines drops down on my head and scatters across the floor. I plop down and gather them up—a truly random assortment of news, science, entertainment, and international journals—and make a stack on the coffee table to be properly sorted and boxed up later.

I’ve emptied the closet about half-way—pausing only to remove Bob when he wedges himself into a dark nook—when I find an ornate wooden box beneath a stack of shoe boxes.

Once I’ve shifted the shoeboxes off of it, I slide it out and sit down in front of it, considering. The box is worn but sturdy, and it could contain what Maglor’s looking for. I flip the latch and open the lid.

Paintings. There are paintings inside.

They’re small portraits of people. The people are absolutely beautiful, their expressions captured in ways that make me feel like I know a little about their personalities just by looking at them. They’re wearing strange clothing, old-fashioned and intricately decorated, and most of them have long elaborately styled hair.

I pull one out and examine the bright-eyed man who gazes off as though he’s seeing a hundred ideas come to life at once. There’s something intense about him that makes it hard for me too look at him for too long, so I put his portrait back and pull out another. It’s a smiling red-haired woman with kind eyes and a tolerant look, as though she’s fondly watching children who are getting up to some minor mischief.

I find myself smiling as I put her portrait back to examine the next.

My eyes go wide and I let out an impressed “huh” when I see the man in this portrait. He’s very handsome and has laughing eyes and a roguish smile. His silvery hair is partly pulled back but it looks windblown, messy, and though his clothing is beautifully decorated it’s more worn and a bit rugged.

I pull out a portrait of a red-haired man and pause. He is astonishingly beautiful, and though his gaze looks confident and commanding, his lips have a softness to them like he’s about to smile. I might have sat staring at him for longer, but then I happen to glance down and another portrait catches my eye.

I feel the air whoosh out of me, and my stomach does a little flip flop.

It’s Maglor. His hair is longer and everything about him seems lighter and more playful, but it’s definitely him.

“Maglor,” I call down the hall. “Maglor, come here for a sec!”

I hear his office door open and his footsteps down the hall, and then he’s standing beside me.

“What are these? Who painted them?”

He squats down beside me, and when I turn to look at him I’m startled by how pale he is.

He breathes in and out slowly, as though he’s calming himself, then he sits down beside me on the floor and takes the portrait I’m still holding of the red-haired man. He bites his lip and huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. But then he smiles, tracing a finger over the red hair.

“I painted these,” he tells me, looking down into the box. “These people are my family. My brothers and my parents.”

I gape at him.

“Wow. Ok, first of all, you’re really multi-talented, aren’t you? And also, your family is gorgeous. I mean, wow. Good genes.”

Maglor lets out a short laugh, a real one this time, and begins pulling out portraits.

“And so many brothers,” I say as I catch sight of the portraits I hadn’t gotten to yet.

“Yes,” Maglor nods, looking distracted. “So many. It did feel that way at one time.”

It’s fascinating watching the range of emotions cross his face, and I can tell he must be sorting through memories even as he sorts through the little paintings. Sometimes he grins, sometimes he shakes his head, but he handles each portrait as though it’s precious.

“I had forgotten I made these,” he says after carefully placing them all back in the box.

“They’re really nice,” I say, drawing his gaze. “You should let me get them framed for you. You could hang them up in the hall, or in your room.”

“No, thank you. I don’t think so.”

I frown. The way he had looked at them, I couldn’t imagine they were on bad terms with each other. But I suppose there are lots of reason someone might be uncomfortable seeing portraits of their family every day.

“Excuse me.” Maglor closes the lid and latches it. He stands up slowly and I’m not sure what he’s going to do, because for a moment it looks as though he’s forgotten where he is. Then he turns and takes the box with him into his room.

His project apparently forgotten, he doesn’t come out again before I go to bed.

Despite his tender reaction to the portraits, I can’t help but regret digging them out.

 

***

 

“Maglor, I really don’t think that cat wants your help,” I say to the figure squatting down by the trash bins.

Maglor crawls forward, reaching between bins that reek of rotting food, and a cacophony of spits and hisses issues forth.

“It’s going to tear your hand off!” I cry in alarm.

Maglor actually grumbles, a petulant sounding retort that I can’t quite make out, and then sits back on his heels. He turns around and frowns at me.

“She’s hurt and afraid. I’m not leaving her here.”

I cross my arms but try to keep my expression neutral. I’ve learned that I can poke and tease Maglor as much as I like but, once he goes into “Helping Mode,” he becomes downright ornery when faced with any kind of opposition.

“She needs medical attention,” he says as if that settles that, and now surely the cat will come trotting out and consent to being handled.

“Then go get her.” I wave my hand at the trash bins and step back, letting him know that although I won’t interfere I’m not getting anywhere near this angry beast. I can’t imagine how he plans to get his hands on this cat and keep himself in one piece.

Maglor crawls forward again, and I look down the street where a couple of people in front of a shop are watching us curiously.

“This is going to end badly,” I say under my breath. While I hope Maglor will be successful, I honestly don’t see how. And I’m feeling anxious about being stared at.

Maglor speaks in a low and lilting voice, and there is a rhythm to his words that makes it feel like music. He doesn’t move from his crouched position near the gap between the bins, but I have the strangest sense of an action being performed. My head feels a little foggy but pleasant, and although my neck has been troubling me since I woke up, I suddenly feel the tense muscles release.

I sigh happily.

It’s suddenly not so bad standing there, and I’m certain that everything will be alright.

I’m smiling to myself and staring into the distance, when Maglor stands up and turns around with a cat cradled in his arms. It’s a small striped tabby, and though its claws are digging into Maglor’s arm, it doesn’t seem to have any desire to escape him. It looks around with bright green eyes, and as Maglor strokes its back with one hand, I hear it begin to purr.

“Look at her pretty eyes,” Maglor says, smiling down at the cat.

I look her over. When I see the wound on her back leg, I’m jolted by worry, and the strange feeling of wellbeing that had been hovering over me dissipates.

“Shit,” I say, leaning down to get a better look at the wound. “Yeah, we should probably get her to a veterinarian.”

“That’s what I intended to do.”

“I really didn’t think she’d let you touch her,” I say defensively. Now that the cat is in his arms I feel bad for not being more supportive. “She seemed so angry.”

Maglor’s tone is softer when he says, “Well, you just have to know how to approach them.”

“Evidently.”

I have trot to keep up with Maglor once he starts walking. We’re not far from the apartment, and the veterinary hospital where we take his cats for checkups is just around the corner.

An older woman pulling a wheeled basket behind her makes a sympathetic noise as we pass her and I turn to grin at Maglor.

“You have a habit of taking in strays, don’t you?”

“If they need help, yes.”

I’m not just thinking of the cats, of course, and I think he knows that.

The cat is blinking lovingly up at Maglor when he murmurs thoughtfully, “She’ll need a name. I think I’ll call her Mina.”

And just like that we have another cat.

 

***

 

We’re walking to the ice skating rink in Central Park, and Maglor is in an irritatingly jaunty mood.

I should probably be more cheerful myself, since I’ll be graduating soon and things in my life seem to be falling into place much more easily than I would have ever expected. But it all feels too good to be true. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I had some powerful benefactor secretly watching over me.

Everything is going to change, though, I know it. I’m going to be working and in a year or two I’ll probably move out. I’ll see Maglor less and less, and Findaráto...well, he’s already wandered off god knows where, to “explore,” he says.

I know I should stop being such a pessimist and enjoy this little outing, which was entirely Maglor’s idea, of course, so when Maglor looks over and smiles at me I smile back.

It’s crowded, but we find a place to sit while we put on the ice skates he brought. I shake my head at him again for buying me ice skates that I will probably never use again rather than just letting me rent the admittedly uncomfortable ones here.

He ignores my disapproval and stands up, saying, “It’s been awhile since I’ve done this, so I might be a little rusty.”

His feet do wobble briefly as he walks toward the opening that leads out onto the ice and I hurry after him, figuring we can hang on to each other for support.

“Don’t worry, I won’t judge. I haven’t done this since I was a kid.”

I loop my arm in his and we step onto the ice. My legs immediately go stiff as my ankles turn inward and then out. I get them straight and let Maglor pull me forward, clutching his arm like it’s a lifeline.

He’s staring down at his feet, watching them move, and without warning he smoothly glides off like he’s floating on air.

Unthinking, I lurch after him, but my feet seem to want to go in different directions. My legs are splayed and my arms flailing in the air when I catch sight of Maglor lifting his arms and turning in a slow graceful spin on the ice. I’m so busy gaping at him that I lose track of what my feet are doing and they go out from under me.

I land on my ass, hard.

I’m glaring openly when Maglor remembers me and looks over.

“You bastard,” I say under my breath.

I don’t feel any real rancor, because really, this is so absolutely _Maglor_ of him. By the time he reaches me, cringing in dismay, I’ve struggled onto my knees and reach a hand out to him.

“A little rusty, are ya?” I soften my tone with a half-smile.

“I’m so sorry. Once I was on the ice and remembered what it felt like, I got excited.”

And he does look excited, beneath his embarrassment. There’s a sparkle in his eyes and color in his cheeks that makes him look so much younger. I can’t even pretend to be annoyed with him when he’s so happy, even if my ass is still throbbing from its collision with the ice.

When I’m fully upright he takes my arm again, slowly leading me further out onto the ice. We make a careful circuit around the rink, and though I can practically feel Maglor buzzing with unspent energy, by his demeanor you’d think he enjoyed nothing more than keeping my clumsy ass propped up.

We’re halfway through our second turn around the rink when I take pity on him.

“Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll stay close to the edge and go slow.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind if we stay together.”

And he means it. I realize he really wouldn’t hold it against me if I kept him crawling around the rink at my sad pace, and I give him a gentle shove. It’s just enough to separate us, but he has to catch my hand and yank me forward to keep me from falling again.

I take my hand back and wave it at him. “Go! I want to see what kind of tricks you can do.”

Maglor grins, but I only see it for a moment because he’s off like a shot, weaving around the other skaters with the graceful movements of a dancer.

I think he forgets me for a while, but it’s amazing to watch. For all his gliding and spinning he never comes close to bumping into anyone, and yet he doesn’t seem aware of anything around him. Sometimes when he gets that distant look, I’m convinced that he’s somewhere else entirely. Maybe lost in memory or maybe daydreaming.

I wonder where he is now.

Wherever he is, he looks exultant. For a moment he reaches his hand out low, as if to a child he is urging to come toward him, but then he’s playfully spinning off as if he’s being chased. His face is full of joy, his eyes wide and bright.

“Unbelievable.”

I huff softly and shake my head. But if Maglor’s moods are infectious, this one is no exception, and soon my face hurts from grinning.

 

***

 

“Wow, Finn. You brought me…an entire garden.” I open my door wider, and Findaráto steps in, turning sideways to avoid bumping the edges of the decorative rack he’s holding against the door frame.

“It’s my housewarming gift to you,” he says, gazing down with affection at the row of potted plants nestled in the rack. “Every home should have plants, and these are useful. There’s oregano, parsley, lemon balm, sage…”

I choke back a laugh as I close the door, and Findaráto glances up from the plants.

“Thyme…” he murmurs, sounding a bit unsure now. “Not a good housewarming gift?”

“No! I love it,” I assure him. “You just caught me off guard. I didn’t even know you were back in the city. You were gone for over a year this time.”

“Yes, well, I’m back. For now.” Findaráto doesn’t hesitate to explore the apartment, looking every inch of the place up and down. Not that there’s much to see in my tiny one bedroom.

“Maglor told me you moved out so I thought I’d come see where you moved to.”

In the kitchen, he stops in front of the window and clears a place for the plants, setting aside the knick knacks and tools that have piled up there. “It’s a nice little place. I approve.”

I cross my arms. “And if you didn’t approve?”

“Then I’d scold Maglor and help you find something better.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help smiling. “Well, technically _I_ found this place. Maglor just recommended the neighborhood.”

Findaráto hums to himself as he adjusts the little pots, turning them so that their decorative fronts are centered.

“Although it was really lucky I found it. The rent is ridiculously low.” I bite my lip. “You know, Maglor seemed to know the landlord when we came to look at the apartment. I wonder if—”

“There. Perfect.” Findaráto turns away from the herb garden and smiles at me. “Now let’s go. I’m taking you shopping.”

“Shopping? For what?”

“I’m buying you a proper couch.”

“You don’t have to do that.” I’ve grown used to Maglor’s endless generosity over the years, but I still feel a bit awkward over Findaráto’s occasional gestures.

“It’s a housewarming gift.”

“You already brought me a housewarming gift.” I gesture to the little row of pants on the window sill, though I know this is a battle I’m not going to win. Findaráto looks determined, and I actually wouldn’t mind getting an actual couch for my new place.

“Fine. The truth?” Findaráto crosses his arms and tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes. “I want somewhere comfortable to sit when I come over.”

I snort. “What, you don’t like the hand-me-down futon my friend gave me?”

“Not particularly, no.”

More hair falls loose from his stylishly messy bun and frames his face when he shakes his head, and when I look him up and down I realize he must have raided Maglor’s closet. That vest is definitely Maglor’s, and the scarf looks suspiciously familiar, too. The darker colors don’t suit him, but still, he looks like he stepped out of a fashion magazine.

“Hipster,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?”

Deciding we might as well move this along, I wave him toward the hall. “I said, let’s go.”

I hear a skeptical “mmhmm” behind me as I make for the door but ignore it. I don’t look at him as I throw on my jacket, but when I reach past him to grab my keys I see a smug little smile on his face that vanishes the moment our eyes meet.

He clears his throat and strolls out the door ahead of me.

Down on the street there’s a car waiting, and I realize it must be the one that brought Findaráto here. I’m not surprised he didn’t want to drag his herb garden on the subway, but I am surprised the driver is still here waiting for him.

I shouldn’t be, I suppose, though I do momentarily wish that I had put up more of a fight over the couch offer on principle.

But Findaráto is so obviously pleased that I resign myself to an afternoon spent in furniture stores, and I give no more thought to the oddness of letting a friend buy me a couch as a housewarming gift.

We only end up going to one furniture store, and the swiftness with which Findaráto locates the couch that he claims is “the one” makes it clear that this was no spur of the moment trip. The couch is nice, not as overpriced or as painfully designer as something I would have expected Findaráto to pick out.

In fact, it’s exactly what I might have picked for myself if I had wandered into this store by chance; soft suede with plush cushions that I’m eager to sink into within the comfort of my new apartment.

I see the flash of his debit card at the register and do a double take.

“Maglor’s card has that same design on it,” I say, leaning in to get a better look at it as the clerk hands it back.

But it disappears with remarkable swiftness into his back pocket, and Findaráto only gives an uninterested, “Oh?” as he starts to fill out the delivery form the smiling clerk hands him.

“Where is Maglor, anyway? I haven’t heard from him the last couple days.”

“He mentioned the three of us getting together now that I’m back in town. But today he’s looking at televisions, I believe. He threw a fit and broke his.”

Findaráto’s lip curls in displeasure, and I stare at him in alarm.

I know that Maglor has some fire burning beneath all his benevolence, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him break anything. I can’t help but feel apprehensive.

“What happened?”

Findaráto looks up from the form in front of him and gives a little shrug. “He mentioned an election. He used very colorful language, and said something about an vile buffoon and unmitigated stupidity…”

“Ah,” I say, and it comes out almost as a sigh. The election. Well, that makes sense then. And apparently Findaráto has been living in a cave somewhere—something that, strangely, does seem to be within the realm of possibility. “Did you not tell him you were meeting me today?”

The clerk says, “Thank you,” when Findaráto gives him the filled out form and then hurries off to talk to a couple that came in while we were paying. Findaráto turns to me.

I stand with my hands shoved in my pockets, and curse myself for not being able to keep my voice more casual. Maglor has been nothing but supportive, and I am excited to have my own place. But I’m torn between hoping Maglor isn’t taking my departure too hard and wanting to believe that he’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss him.

Findaráto smiles warmly and slings an arm around my shoulder, steering me toward the entrance. It took me while to become completely comfortable with displays of affection from Maglor, but Findaráto always had a way of making me feel so at ease that his tactile nature doesn’t bother me.

“I think he’s trying to give you a little space, but he misses you,” Findaráto says in a reassuring voice. We’re out on the street when he adds, “He’s talked about you nonstop, you know. He’s so proud of everything you’ve accomplished since he met you.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel like that should sound patronizing, but it doesn’t. I haven’t talked to my parents in many years, and even when we did talk they never expressed any kind of pride in me. I’m not used to having people in my life who are invested in me. That the friends I’ve made here are genuinely happy to see me succeed makes a painful pressure build in my chest even as something in me soars.

Findaráto me gives a little shake that brings me back. “Lunch?”

I rub at my eye—not that I was tearing up or anything—and look up at Findaráto. “Yeah. Lunch sounds good.”

While Findaráto starts listing off restaurants in the area, I find myself marveling at how much one’s life can change over the course of just a few years.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I’m strong enough to face whatever happens next.

 

***

 

Since starting my new job and moving out we don’t see each other as often as I’d like, but whenever Maglor isn’t touring we make sure to get together at least a couple times a week.

“I was thinking of getting out of the country. Maybe travelling a bit,” Maglor says, gazing down at the cup of coffee in his hands. We’ve just left Chelsea Market and are meandering in the direction of the water.

“Really?” I’m caught off guard, and my heart feels like it stutters. “When? For how long?”

“Not right now. In a year or two, perhaps.” The sun has just set, and the dull light makes Maglor look washed out and tired. “I don’t know. I might want to move away from New York eventually, so it wouldn’t hurt to explore other options.”

“Whoa,” I turn on him. “You’re thinking of moving out of the country for good? Why?”

“I wouldn’t leave for good anytime soon. I just wanted to prepare you for the possibility, so if I do go it doesn’t seem sudden.”

“Uh, ok…”

We reach a crosswalk and hurry across. Up ahead, beyond hulking masses of metal and concrete, I see the shimmer of water.

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, and I wanted to share my thoughts with you.”

Once we’re on the sidewalk on the other side of the street I look at Maglor, considering. “Is everything ok with you?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Maglor often pauses in between statements, as if his thoughts stream in slowly before being sifted through filter after filter, so I wait quietly. A few moments later Maglor says, “I have been thinking about my family a lot recently.”

“Oh.” I’m dimly aware of the boats drifting by on the water and the sudden flow of traffic on the street, but it’s suddenly hard to take my eyes off my friend.

“I was thinking…perhaps…I might like to go home one day. To see my family again.”

“Then you should.”

I’ve never had the urge to visit most of the people I’ve left behind, with only a few exceptions. It’s the exceptions who make me ache with regret some days, and I wouldn’t wish that on Maglor. Maglor’s family is an issue that he never seems to really want to discuss and yet always seems to dance around.

Whatever happened between them, it’s clear that he cares for them and misses them.

The look he gives me now is unsure though. “I don’t know. I still have so many reasons to stay here, and I just don’t know that I’m ready yet.”

“I think you should do whatever will make you happy. Don’t worry about everything else.”

Maglor takes a long sip of the coffee he seemed to have forgotten he was holding, and I can tell his mind is in turmoil. The pale grey of his eyes looks darker, and a crease has formed between his eyebrows.

“It was just a thought I had. I don’t have to make any decisions now.” Maglor turns to look at me, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “And I am happy. I’m happy here.”

“Yeah, me too.” I gaze around fondly, my smile not even fading when the honking of a car nearby makes my right eye twitch, and I have to hold my breath when a smell like sewage floats in on the breeze. The water to our right is dark and glistening with light, and my gaze drifts there as we walk.

When Maglor speaks again, it’s in that careful tone that grabs my attention with its vulnerability.

“I’ve wanted to tell you something, but...”

His pace slows and mine slows to match it, my eyes locked on his face. He is visibly struggling, licking his lips and framing words with his mouth that never come out.

I hate to see him struggle.

“Yeah?” I try to keep my voice encouraging, and I’m pleased when he takes a deep breath and starts to speak.

We’re thrust apart as a woman stumbles between us with a hysterical laugh, her shoulder slamming into mine. She teeters ahead of us in her massive red heels, and a moment later a man dashes between us to throw an arm around her waist. They’re both cackling and reek of liquor.

“Don’t mind us!” I call out, glaring at their backs.

The man briefly glances back and mutters apologies that I barely catch over his companion’s laughter, and then they stumble further ahead.

I turn and give Maglor the most charming smile I can muster—which isn’t all that charming—because I know he doesn’t like it when I scold random people on the street. Even when they kind of deserve it.

But he just looks lost, one hand snaking through his hair as he takes deep breaths.

I mentally curse drunk pedestrians everywhere, and then cautiously ask, “You wanted to tell me something?”

“Yes.” Maglor nods.

He’s stopped walking now, and I turn to stand facing him. He looks as though he’s frozen in indecision, and I resist the urge to give him a nudge.

“Yes,” he says again, nodding and then finally meeting my eyes. “I want to thank you for all your help when you lived with me.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Ok.”

“Thank you.”

He looks satisfied enough, and yet he still seems to be brimming with nervous energy. But if he’s holding something in despite his obvious desire to spit it out, then I guess I should respect the fact that he’s not ready to share yet.

“You’re welcome,” I say, hoping he’ll relax. He does, a little, so I go on, “I should be the one thanking you, though. You’ve done a lot for me. So, you know…thanks.”

I cringe at how awkward I sound, but Maglor just smiles and nods in the direction we had been going. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

Glad we got all that out of the way, I’m quick to follow after him when he starts moving again. He’s probably going to show me some kind of historical landmark that at first seems boring until he starts telling stories, then I’ll give him skeptical looks even though he’ll have me completely ensnared in his tale.

My friend is never dull, that’s for certain. And though I do want him to do whatever will make him happy, I know I would miss him fiercely if he ever left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art for this story can be found [here](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/164147018123/sketches-of-modern-maglor-and-bob-the-cat-for-my).


	4. Chapter 4

 

  
While everyone's lost  
The battle is won  
With all these things that I've done  
_– The Killers, All These Things That I've Done_

 

“Hurry up or we’ll be late!” I yell down the hall.

I can hear Maglor digging around in his closet and I roll my eyes as I go in the living room to wait for him. I haven’t lived here for several years now, but somehow it still feels like home. And because the habit of picking up after Maglor apparently will not die, I go over to the coffee table and collect the various empty mugs sitting there. Once they’re in the sink I plop down on the couch and stretch my limbs, grimacing a little at the ache in my muscles.

I hear the soft thump of little paws hitting the floor. I look up as and Tesla strolls over, sniffs my shoe, and then gazes up at me.

“Have you missed me?” I ask her.

She lets out a soft “mrrr” and as she lifts her head a little higher I notice the bits of silver speckling her black fur. I nod sympathetically, remembering the grey hair I found on my head a month ago, my very first. My mother started getting grey hairs in her thirties, so I didn’t think much of it, but Maglor looked at me like I was going to drop dead on the spot when I told him about it. I had plucked it out and forgotten about it until now.

Sweet little Tesla is getting old, though I’m pleased that she still looks sleek and healthy.

She arches her back a little as she walks past me toward the hall, graciously accepting the quick pet I give her before she saunters around the corner.

I smile and look around, my eyes instinctively seeking out any changes in the apartment that will give me hints about what Maglor has been up to since the last time I saw him.

There’s always something.

On the side table to my right I catch sight of the gilt edges of a photo album and shift newspapers and books off of it to get a better look. I reason that if it was private it wouldn’t be sitting out in the living room, and I pull it onto my lap and open it.

I don’t know what I expected. Maglor has asked for my feedback on his random and sometimes unusual creative projects before, but I can’t guess what this is.

The photo album is filled with very old pictures. Faded sepia people stare back at me, radiant and smiling. I turn the page and there are more old pictures on the next two pages, though they don’t look quite as timeworn as the ones on the first page.

I try to find similarities between the people, but they don’t appear to be related or in the same locations. I turn another page, searching, but the only constant is their jubilant expressions.

On the next page there are pictures that are in color. Some of the people are alone and some are with others, arms linked or hands clasped as they beam at the camera.

I turn another page and marvel at the different scenes. A white-haired man standing on a hiking trail, lifting a hand holding a walking stick as though beckoning someone forward. A young woman with light brown skin and a long dark braid down her back, smiling over her shoulder as she climbs the stone steps of some ancient ruin. A dark-eyed woman and a child hug each other and grin at the camera, a beautiful desert sunset behind them.

I smile over a shot of a woman at the beach posing like a pin-up model, and laugh outright over the joyful face of a man in bell bottoms strumming a guitar.

The last page contains pictures that are undoubtedly modern. The crisp images show people in fashions I recognize from recent years. The man in the second to last picture looks familiar—I could swear I’ve seen him before at a party or event I went to with Maglor, though I could be wrong—but then the final picture grabs my attention.

It’s me.

Maglor, Findaráto, and a couple of Findaráto’s friends decided to go on a cruise a few years after I moved out, and Maglor had invited me along. I had been ambivalent about the trip at first, both because I didn’t know Findaráto’s friends, and because I was anxious about being away from home and work for any length of time. But in the end I had enjoyed myself immensely.

In this picture I’m standing in shallow water, holding snorkeling gear and grinning at the camera. Or grinning at Maglor, really. I had told him once not long after we first met that I had always wanted to visit the Bahamas. I wonder if he remembered that when he and Findaráto were planning their trip.

I trace the edges of the picture with my finger. I feel like the photo album is a story and my picture the last line, bringing the tale to an end. I get a little chill, and I feel like my heart is twisting, though I don’t know why. If this album is telling a story then it’s a happy one, isn’t it?

“Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t find my—” The tap of Maglor’s shoes on the hardwood floor stops as his shadow falls over me.

I’m glad none of my conflicted emotions come through in my voice when I ask, “What’s this?”

Maglor sits down next to me on the couch and rests his hands in his lap. “I collect pictures.”

“Of happy people.”

“Yes.” He reaches out and touches the page my photograph is on. “I collect happy memories.”

“Huh.”

I stare down at the open page, at the smiling people, and my emotions settle into something calm and warm.

“You don’t mind your picture being included?” Maglor asks.

He sounds so uncertain that I can’t help but give him a reassuring smile. “No. I’m kind of flattered to be a part of this. Some of these pictures look ancient. Where did you find them?”

Maglor looks strangely uncomfortable. After a moment he says softly, “Such moments are easier to come by than I had once believed.”

It’s the kind of weird, Maglor-ish non-answer I’m used to, so I don’t bother questioning him further. I put the photo album back on the side table stand up. “Are you ready to go?”

Something like relief sweeps across Maglor’s face, and he nods. “Yes, let’s go. If we hurry we shouldn’t be late.”

I don’t mention the photo album again, but I think about for the rest of the night.

 

***

 

I can’t even remember the last time Maglor, Findaráto, and I got together for an evening. I have been busy with work, Maglor has been touring, and Findaráto…I have no idea what Findaráto gets up to these days. It’s always been his habit to vanish for long periods only to reappear again with gifts and stories from countries I didn’t even know existed.

Once I gave him my cell number I began to periodically receive pictures from him with no context whatsoever. Sometimes it’s selfies with a grinning Findaráto and various landscapes in the background. Once he sent me a picture of a gnarled but beautiful tree, and a google search revealed it to be the oldest tree in the world. I didn’t receive another text from him again until six months later when I woke up to a picture of him standing next to a camel, with a seemingly endless sprawl of sand dunes behind him.

The next time I met with Maglor for coffee I asked him how Findaráto could afford to travel so much. He had only sighed, shrugged, and buried his nose deeper in the newspaper he was reading.

It’s late now, and after an evening out to celebrate Findaráto’s return from Bhutan—or at least I think that’s what he said—I am drowsing peacefully on Maglor’s couch. Maglor had actually seemed alarmed earlier when I declared that I'm not a spring chicken anymore and don't have the stamina for late-night drinking. I was only joking, and yet here I am sprawled on his couch.

I’m beginning to sink into a pleasant dream when a burst of laughter brings me fully awake. I crack my eyes open and see that Maglor and Findaráto are at the dining room table, a bottle of wine between them.

Reassured that all is well, I start to drift off again. Someone has laid a blanket over me and I’m not strong enough to resist the call of sleep in such a soothing environment. My friends’ voices become a pleasant background noise until I hear a thump and then the tone of voice Maglor reserves for particularly tiresome topics.

“Not this again.”

“I’m serious, Káno!”

“I can see that. It is most unfortunate.” Maglor doesn’t quite slur, but his voice is a soft around the edges.

Findaráto sounds so earnest when he goes on, the pleading note in his voice almost lost beneath all the conviction. "In all this time you have helped and healed infinitely more people than you have ever harmed."

"’Infinitely more,’ you say.” Maglor lets out a gruff chuckle. “And how would you know?"

"You don't think the Valar have kept an eye on you, Makalaurë Fëanorion? You must have known they were aware."

"I don't care if they were or not. I didn’t do it for them."

Findaráto laughs softly. "Oh, I know. It was never their forgiveness you needed. If it had been as freely offered to you then as it is now, would it have made a difference? Would you have come back sooner?"

"No. I wouldn’t have." Maglor’s voice is steely.

I fight the urge to open my eyes and watch them, to see the fiery look I know must be on Maglor’s face at this moment.

"No. Of course not." Findaráto almost sounds pleased. "Because their forgiveness would not have lifted the burden of guilt that you are so terribly fond of carrying around. And Eru forbid you lay _that_ down."

"You are incredibly rude. You come into my home, you drink my wine—" I hear a scuffle, laughter, and the splatter of liquid on the floor. “You insult me, your gracious host!”

I can’t help but peek beneath my lashes. Maglor and Findaráto are playfully wrestling over the wine bottle, their legs tangling and kicking out until they unseat themselves and fall to the floor together. Maglor shushes Findaráto in a voice that is significantly louder than Findaráto’s wheezing laughter, and I’m on the verge of getting up so that I can join them when the mood in the room shifts abruptly.

Maglor sags and Findaráto sobers a moment later, pulling him close so that their heads are leaning together. It’s so tender and moving that I can’t bear to watch and close my eyes again.

"All that was has changed, and it is like a new world. Forgive yourself." Findaráto’s words are whispered, gentle. "Forgive yourself, and come home. Make a new life.”

“I’m going to stop inviting you over if every midnight conversation turns into…this.”

Findaráto sighs. “I just don’t understand. Did you never have any desire to return?”

“At times. But only because I longed for a life that I could never have again.” When I peek again Maglor has settled with one arm around Findaráto and his head on his shoulder. He looks tired. “The longer I remained here, the easier it became to convince myself that I had no desire to go back. There was nothing for me there, and here…here I could make a life for myself that was untouched by my past.”

I feel a pang of sympathy. It was my desire to start over that brought me to New York, so that’s something I understand.

Maglor goes on after a pause, “Here I can be who I want to be. I can be who I might have been had things gone differently, had I made wiser choices when I was young. Is it wrong of me to want that, after all I’ve been through?”

“You know it’s not. But we’ve missed you. Your absence is grieved by many.”

“Many?” Maglor’s tone is one of utter disbelief.

“Yes.” Findaráto’s voice changes, becoming light and teasing. “It is a new world!”

“Hush. You’ll wake Alex.”

Findaráto laughs, but then he begins to hum something that reminds me of a lullaby my grandfather used to sing to me when I was little.

My head feels heavy from all the wine I drank earlier, full of fog. I have only a few moments to wonder at their conversation before I drift off to sleep, lost in one of the few pleasant memories from my childhood.

 

***

 

“Italy,” I say under my breath. “You’re moving to Italy.”

There are boxes littering Maglor’s apartment, some of them closed and taped up and others open and half-full of odds and ends.

“For now, yes.” Maglor goes to a box, sifts through its contents for a few moments, and then abandons it. He paces around the living room as though looking for something, then picks up a book and examines the back cover. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself and has been awkward and restless since I arrived to hear his big news.

On the arm of the couch Tesla watches him intently, her whiskers twitching whenever he passes by her.  

I can’t claim that he’s blindsided me with his decision. Though it’s been years since that first time he mentioned leaving, he’s been dropping hints about going through with it for months now.

As irrational as it is, I feel a helpless sense of betrayal that he can just pack up and go.

“Won’t you miss New York?” I ask.

Maglor meanders over to the dining room table and picks up a stack of sheet music, absently flipping through it. “I find it difficult to stay in one place for too long.”

I let out an incredulous laugh. “But you travel all the time for your work.”

Maglor flinches. It’s subtle and quick, but I catch it and immediately regret my tone when he sets down the sheet music and stares blankly at his hands. It suddenly dawns on me that Maglor is hurting as much as I am. As determined as he is to go, the decision was apparently not an easy one for him to make.

I sigh. “I’m being an ass, aren’t I?”

Maglor finally meets my eyes and shakes his head. “No.”

“I am. I’m sorry.”

Maglor gives me a patient look, and the rigid lines of his body relax.

“Just promise you’ll come and visit me sometime. Don’t go off and forget about me.”

Maglor’s eyes light up with emotion, and he says “I could never forget someone who has been a friend to me. Not if I lived ten thousand years.”

“Alright, alright. There’s no need for hyperbole.” I roll my eyes a little, but I’m pleased.

I could swear Maglor smirks, but if he does it’s gone in an instant. And then he just looks so forlorn standing there, slight and delicate in the shadows of the room even though he towers over me. I’ve never been a demonstrative person, but I go to him and put my arms around him.

He’s stiff for a moment, but then he grows pliant and heavy like he’s trying to melt into me. His chin rests on the top of my head, and when he sighs I feel the warmth of his breath.

Although his leaving makes me feel like I’m losing a limb, for a few long moments I feel perfectly safe and warm and loved. My sadness fades, but it leaves a swirling confusion of feeling in its place.

As if he can sense the moment when the contact becomes too much, my emotions breaking down into chaos as they are prone to do when I’m overwhelmed, Maglor slowly pulls away. His hands linger on my shoulders and he looks at me like he’s committing this moment to memory.

I step away and run a hand through my hair, looking around at the boxes. “Well, shit. Do you need any help packing? This doesn’t look very organized.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Maglor picks up the sheet music again, then tosses it back down. “I don’t know what to bring.”

“The cats?” I still remember how bereft he was when Gerasimus passed away, as old as she had been, and I can’t imagine him being willing to part with the others.

“Bob and Tesla are coming with me. Finn’s friend Megan stayed here for a week when she was visiting and she and Mina bonded. Did I tell you this?”

“No.” The last stray cat Maglor had rescued had never gotten along well with the other cats. Or with anyone else, for that matter.

“She took Mina back with her to Colorado. She periodically sends me pictures of the cat. Mina seems content.”

I laugh at his pleased expression, though I feel a renewed twinge of sadness at the way things are changing.

But embracing change was one of the many things Maglor taught me, and I try now to accept that things can still be good even if they’re different. Though I must admit to myself that I feel like I’ll need some convincing in this case.

 

***

 

“Hang on,” Maglor says, and on the computer screen I see him lean forward.

Our skype sessions have gone from weekly to monthly to whenever we happened to think of it, though Maglor’s enthusiasm once I catch up with him never seems to wane no matter how much time passes. And how time passes.

Rather than clearing, the image goes fuzzier with Maglor’s fiddling, until he’s a grainy blur.

“Oh dear,” I hear him murmur.

“Can’t you afford a better webcam? I’ll send you one for your birthday.”

“No. I mean yes, I can afford one. But no, don’t do that. I don’t need a new one.”

The blur that is Maglor shifts around, and I wonder how clearly he sees me as I throw up my hands in exasperation. I don’t know why he’s so stubborn about little things like this, but it’s so good to hear his voice that I don’t let myself dwell on it for long.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You wanted to talk to me about webcams,” I say seriously. I love Maglor, but I can’t resist the charming way he gets so flustered when he thinks I’ve misunderstood him.

“No, that’s not—” Maglor casts about for words and I grin. “I may not be able to see you for several months. I’ll be very busy with touring and promoting, and I’ve got some other things I’m working on, too.”

“Ok,” I drag out the word as I process what he’s said.

“I just wanted to let you know so you won’t think I dropped off the face of the earth.”

The picture isn’t clear, but I can see his playful half-smile.

It’s unfortunate I won’t get to see him as much, but I have to admit to myself that this eases some of my guilt about frequently being too busy to keep in touch with him like I used to.

My voice is amiable when I say, “You’re still going to send me postcards from the places you visit, right?”

“Of course,” Maglor says, feigning offense at the suggestion that he might forget. “It’s a tradition I’m fond of.”

“Good.” I love it when he’s in a playful mood and I feel myself settle into contentedness. After a few moments I ask, “When do you think you’ll come to the States again?”

“I’m not certain. Eventually.”

“Hmmm.” I rest my chin in my hand, debating if I should continue teasing him or give him a break.

Maglor doesn't give the silence a chance to grow. “I’ve missed you. How are you doing? How is work?”

“Work is ok. It’s work.” I laugh, but I get a heavy feeling as I think about the young man I met with last week. He’s struggling financially and his self-destructive behaviors have me concerned for his safety, but I try to let the fact that he’s seeking help keep me hopeful. It’s important for him to he see that somebody believes he can get through this.

“I hope you’re doing more than just working.” Maglor’s voice sounds casual but I can hear the concern beneath it.

“It just so happens that Neil and I are planning a road trip.” I met Neil in college, but it wasn't until after Maglor moved away that we grew close. He’s good company, and his adventurous spirit and love of travel reminds me a bit of Findaráto. “He’s going to visit his sister in Boston and I’m tagging along.”

Just thinking about being in a car for hours is making me feel achy, but I won’t admit that to Maglor. Instead I tell him what I plan to do on my trip, and I can see his blurry image smile as he listens.

 

***

 

I had a dream that Maglor visited me.

The last message I sent him was over a year ago, and I can't remember the last time I heard his voice. I don’t think of Maglor as often as I used to, though I get struck at random by memories that make me smile before I get swept back up into the stuff that makes up my day to day life.

When I got sick I sent him an email. I should have went to see my doctor sooner, and then maybe then the situation wouldn’t have become as dire as it did. But I hate doctor’s offices, and I had convinced myself that I’d get better on my own. By the time I finally went in, the pneumonia was severe.

I don’t know why I sent Maglor the message. I sometimes feel guilty that I don’t make more of an effort to stay in contact with him, but no matter how much time passes, we pick right up as if we talked just yesterday. I should have emailed him sooner to ask how he’s been doing and what he’s been up to instead of sending him a brief message out of the blue to tell him about how sick I’ve been feeling.

But I suppose some part of me will always feel the need to seek out my old friend when I need comfort.

In his response, he had insisted that I go see my doctor and urged me to take better care of myself in general.

Not long after our exchange, I found myself in the hospital.

When my fever spiked I became delirious, and that first night in a strange place had been deeply unsettling. The room seemed to spin as I slipped in and out of consciousness, and each time I woke I battled panic as I struggled to remember where I was.

Then I dreamed of Maglor. Not Maglor as he would be now, but Maglor looking as young as the day I first met him, so bright-eyed and beautiful that he couldn’t be anything other than a hallucination or a dream.

As I blinked he grew blurry and distant, but then he began to sing.

His voice was soft and sweet at first but full of promise, as though he was slowly building up to something much grander.

I used to sing a lot as a child, but once I got older I became too self-conscious, and it was like my voice died within me. Still, I found myself humming weakly under my breath to try to capture that music.

Maglor laid a hand on my forehead and as his song swelled I felt as though my body grew lighter. For a moment I felt so at peace, and my heart beat stronger and steadier even as my eyes grew heavy and the room faded out.

I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke my gaze went right to the place where Maglor had been in my dream. Even though I knew it was foolish, I had felt a twinge of disappointment when there was no one there.

I’m home now and relieved to be able to sleep in my own bed again.

My lungs still ache if I breathe too hard and, I get dizzy if I try to do too much, but my doctor assured me that I’m recovering nicely. And with impressive speed, considering how ill I had been when I arrived at the hospital.

I’m watering my little herb garden on the balcony, which has expanded since that day long ago when Findaráto left a row of plants on my window sill, when there’s a knock at the door.

I walk to the living room, stop to lean on the couch and catch my breath, and then go to the front door.

My young downstairs neighbor, Eleni, smiles and looks me over when I open the door.

“How are you doing? Feeling any better?”

She’s holding a box, which I assume is mine since she seems to have got it in her head that her gruff upstairs neighbor must be lonely and uses any excuse—including bringing me my packages—to come see how I’m doing.

Despite the darkness around the edges of my mood, I make it a point not to be the least bit curt or impatient, lest she worry and decide I need cheering up. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

Back when I was new to the building, Eleni and her girlfriend had sent me a thoughtful welcome package including a pretty hand-drawn card and a batch of cookies. It was a charming and unexpected gesture that had me warming up to them much more quickly than I generally do when meeting new people.

Eleni lifts the box a little and says, “Looks like this one came from Portugal. Your friend really gets around, doesn’t he?”

I chuckle as I take the box from her. “He does.”

Though not very large, the box is heavy. I shift awkwardly under its weight as Eleni makes a bit of the kind of small talk that I’m so horrible at. But Eleni is observant and cuts herself off abruptly after a minute to say, “I’d better get going and give you a chance to go open your package.”

Ignoring a wave of dizziness, I say with genuine warmth, “Thank you for bringing it up to me. Tell Chandra I said hello.”

“I will. You take care of yourself, and let me know if you need anything.”

She knows I won’t ask her for anything, but there is something comforting about knowing there are people who won’t hesitate to give help if you need it.

Once I’m alone with the package I take my time opening it. I’m already feeling a bit overwhelmed by Maglor’s continued benevolence even though we haven’t seen each other in many years.

The day I got home from the hospital I found a padded box on my doorstep. Inside, packed between ice packs, were three pre-prepared meals of excellent quality. I’d heard of services that delivered meals but had never tried one. I've avoided looking up this company, because I know if I see how much the service costs then I’ll find myself scolding Maglor instead of thanking him for the very thoughtful gesture the next time I talk to him.

And he was right. I wouldn’t have thought of it for myself, and I was not feeling up to grocery shopping or cooking for the first few days of my recovery.

I was always better at taking care of other people than taking care of myself. Maglor is the same way. I think, for some people, all the suffering they’ve witnessed makes them feel the need to do as much good as possible, even when they don’t feel they themselves are worthy of such kindness.

Even now it’s a difficult thing for me to admit to myself—that I deserve kindness—but Maglor won’t let me forget it.

 _Take care of yourself_ , he says. _You deserve good things._

He seems to forget that he does, too.

I get the box open and I smile. I’ve always enjoyed trying the teas Maglor finds on his travels, so every package he’s sent since moving away has included some, as well as honey. He’s also included one of his own special tea blends, which I’ve noticed gives me a noticeable boost to my overall wellbeing when I drink it daily as Maglor insists. I grin over the small bag containing various candies, and I hum appreciatively when I unwrap a couple of ceramic dishes, including a mug to add to my collection.

Then there’s the letter. If he was here now I’d tease him over receiving one of his pep talks, though there’s a serious undertone here.

For all the briefness of his reply, the email I sent him before going to the hospital must have given him a scare.

I marvel that he still cares for me as much as he does, despite my distance. Granted, he was the one that moved away, but I sometimes had the odd thought that if I asked Maglor to move back he would.

But I wouldn’t do that, of course, even if it were true. I have my life and he has his, and though I will always cherish his friendship, everyone has to follow their own path.

That’s another something he taught me, after all.

 

***

 

It’s late autumn and the wind seems to cut right through my coat. I should probably buy a new one, but I’m fond of this one and will probably wear it until it’s in tatters.

The walk from the subway stop to my apartment seems to get a bit longer every year. I miss my old place. It was a shorter walk home, but then it doesn’t have as much space as my apartment now. It’s always one thing or another, I guess.

I press my hand over the inner pocket of my coat and smile. The note came with a flower arrangement sent to my desk by someone I had helped at work. It feels good to help people get the services they need to get their lives back on track, and the note is a reminder why I do what I do.

Of course, there’s only so much you can do to help someone along, and the real work they have to do themselves. It seems like all some people need is a little wind in their sails and off they go. Other people…it seems like they’re just barely able to keep their heads above water no matter who reaches out a helping hand.

I still remember what drowning felt like.

I remember staring out at the ocean until a kind stranger asked, _do you need help?_

As I walk toward home, I hum snatches of the songs Maglor used to sing. His music never left me, but the notes fall powerless from my lips, a pale imitation of something profoundly beautiful.

I keep humming anyway.

I never had a talent for music, not like Maglor, but he urged me to find some sense of purpose and I feel like I did. There were a lot of things in my life that I really mucked up, but I think I got enough right in the end that I’m not the waste of space I used to believe I was.

Not that this is the end.

My doctor has been giving me warnings about my heart, so I watch my diet and get some light exercise. And if I grumble the whole time, I figure there’s no harm in that. I’m not so old that my body should feel so run down, but then I didn’t exactly watch my health when I was younger, and I suppose I’m paying for it now.

It makes me sad to think of all the poisons I poured into my body when I felt young and invincible.

“Hey, Alex!” the gentleman who runs the corner deli calls.

I startle but recover quickly and give him a wave, stopping to inquire after his children before going on my way.

It’s cold, and I’ve stopped three times now to catch up with the people in my neighborhood who I haven’t seen since before I left for vacation. The vacation was good. Getting home again is even better.

I’m two blocks from my apartment when someone up ahead catches my eye.

I nearly stumble.

The man starts walking away from me, but I see his face for just a second and it makes my heart skip a beat. He looks just as Maglor did when I first met him. Of course, Maglor would be in his fifties now, but I feel like I’ve had a glimpse of my old friend and it gives me a thrill.

I follow him.

When he turns a corner I jog to catch up, my lungs protesting as I suck in deeps breaths of cold air. But when I round the corner, he’s gone.

The wind picks up, spinning fallen leaves around on the sidewalk, and I shiver as I turn back toward home. I feel a little rattled. But I had been thinking of Maglor earlier, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that saw him in someone else.

I resolve to send him a message when I get home.

I wonder what he’s up to.

***

 

My hands ache but I tug my laptop from the side table onto my lap and sit up a little straighter, squirming against the pillows behind me.

I’m taking a little time off work for the sake of my health after a nasty bout of the flu. My body still aches, but I’m feeling much better than I was a few days ago. Juliane from my work comes to sit with me in the evenings, and I think it means as much to her as it does to me. She’s been struggling with her divorce, and I've been doing my best to be supportive when she needs to lean on someone, or just to vent.

But I’m alone now and feeling nostalgic, apparently.

Over the years I’ve gathered all my photos into an online photo album, but I rarely take the time to look back over what was.

Now I do, and I smile as the memories come flooding back. I’m no stranger to grief and pain, but these are the happy times, the moments I want to relive in my mind.

There are pictures of all the people I met after I moved to New York City, and only a few of the people I knew before that—the ones who stood by me no matter how low I let myself fall. It’s good to look on their faces, to remember their voices and their laughter while I sit in the quiet of my bedroom. Some of them have fallen out of touch, but many of them still call and send me the messages asking how I'm doing.

 _I’m fine_ , I say, and I mean it.

What a feeling that is.

My body throbs and aches and my heart palpitates, but I feel fine in the way that matters. Maybe I’ve become numb to pain, and now I see right past it when I look at the life I’ve made for myself.

I know I’m smiling like a fool as I look through the pictures, but no one’s here to see.

I stop scrolling and stare in confusion at the screen.

There’s a picture of Maglor, but he looks far younger than he should. I look at the pictures before and after it, and confirm to myself that this is the night of the dinner cruise we took when he came to visit a year or so after he moved away. In a picture of me sipping from a champagne glass I see the laugh lines on my face and know I’m not imagining this.

Maglor’s face is smooth and young in this picture, not like I remember it from that night, when it seemed beautiful but gently aging.

I sit still, staring at the picture for a long time.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, I reason. Maybe the flash mercifully hid all the lines that it left etched deep on my own face. A small voice in me teases, _or maybe Maglor just didn’t laugh or smile enough_ , but I know that’s not true. There had been many times when he seemed hesitant to let his mirth bubble over, but it had always been there beneath the surface, if sometimes weighed down by other things.

But isn’t that the way of it?

I scroll on, searching for more pictures of him, but Maglor had always been a little camera shy. I used to be camera shy, but I found that I cared less and less about my appearance as I got older. Who was I trying to impress, after all?

But Maglor…what a strange thing.

My eyes are burning from staring at the bright screen, so I close the laptop and move it back onto the bedside table.

I feel drowsy, so I scoot down until my head is on the pillows, and I tell myself I’ll send Maglor that picture the next time I email him. I’ll give him hell over it, ask for his secret.

If I only I can remember. I’m so tired lately, and it makes me forgetful.

I compose a letter to him in my mind, something light but heartfelt, like the kind of messages used to send him after he first moved away. I smile as I imagine his response.

 

***

 

“Don’t you give me platitudes. Not now.”

That voice is so familiar. It takes me a moment to place it, but I’m certain it’s Maglor. I struggle to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel heavy, and I don’t have the strength.

“Easy. You’ll wake Alex.”

I know that voice, too. Findaráto is here.

“I am not the young fool you knew before. I have loved and lost a thousand times over. I know the value of a life, and it is infinite." Maglor’s voice breaks, and my heart twists. "I know this in a way that most of our people will never truly understand. They looked back on the past and longed for what was. But I have learned to live here in the moment, because these moments are gone so quickly and with them the people I have come to care for."

“I know. Makalaurë, _I know_.” Findaráto sounds as if he’s struggling helplessly against Maglor’s grief. “I just wanted to comfort you somehow, but I’m sticking my foot in my mouth, aren’t I? I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Maglor sounds calmer now, though still bereft. “Forgive me.”

“I think it’s time you stopped apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

They both laugh softly.

I clear my throat and grumble, “Get a room, you two.”

“Alex!”

I manage to peel my eyes open and there’s Maglor, standing over me. My gaze drifts, and I see that I’m in a hospital. I had forgotten.

Something isn’t right though. I’ve been feeling so lost, and though I know my confusion is related to my friend’s presence, I can’t imagine why it should be strange that he would visit me.

“How are you feeling?” Maglor asks.

“I’ve been better.”

I close my eyes, and I feel Maglor’s warm hand press against my cheek, then my forehead. When I open my eyes again, I feel as though something has shifted in my mind, making everything clearer. It's then that I see it. Maglor has not aged. He is not like me, he is something else. This realization should be frightening, but my body is failing, and this feels like a wondrous thing.

That is my friend: impossible, but wonderful. I smile faintly when I catch sight of Findaráto’s face and realize that he is the same.

I try to recall every experience that involves these two, to apply my new understanding of them to the things that happened, but I only come away with a vague sense of abiding kindness. And before I met them...there my feelings grow a little darker.

I want very badly to get out of this bed and hug my friends. But I'm painfully aware of just how worn out my body is, and after a long silence I murmur, “I wish I had been kinder to myself. Too late now, I guess.”

Maglor shakes his head at me. “It’s never too late.”

“Yeah well…” I stop to draw in a few long, painful breaths. I feel like I can’t get enough air into my lungs, but I gather enough breath to say, “That goes for you, too.”

“I know. I know that now.”

My gaze slides over to Findaráto. But before I can begin to articulate any of the things I’d like to ask my friends, I grow groggy and close my eyes against the feeling.

I drift off, sinking into sleep with a heaviness that makes me wonder if I’ll ever wake up again. My dreams are fleeting, becoming bright and confusing before I startle awake. I don’t know how long my eyes were closed, and I scan the room with heart-pounding urgency.

Maglor and Findaráto are still here, and I sigh with relief.

Maglor scoots his chair closer when he sees I’m awake, but I find it hard to focus on him. The clarity I gained earlier is fading, and there’s a crushing pain building in my chest. When Maglor speaks I try to blink away the shadows that surround my vision. Failing at that, I narrow my attention down to the sound of his voice.

“I didn’t tell you everything. There are things about me you don’t know. Things I’ve done that would make you think less of me.”

It takes me a minute to process what he’s said, and then I feel a surge of frustration.

My vision clears a little, and I steadily hold his gaze. “I don’t know about all the things you’ve done in your life, but I know who you are now, and that’s all that matters to me. I wish you could see yourself as I see you.”

He smiles, but it’s crooked, and I know there’s pain behind it. “I wanted to be honest with you, and now I feel like it’s too late. I was so afraid that I would get in the way of you living your life if I stayed. It would have been too tempting to carry you through every hardship, to shield you from the world. So I hid the truth and left.”

I don’t completely understand his meaning, but I feel his love for me in the words.

“Don’t get all maudlin on me, now. If anyone gets to be weepy, it’s me.” My voice comes out gruffer than I intended. My limbs feel so heavy, and I need something to lift me up and make me feel light again. “Tell me something nice. Give me some good news.”

“Yes,” Findaráto finally chimes in, standing now at Maglor’s shoulder, “Tell Alex what you decided.”

Findaráto smiles benignly when Maglor gives him an exasperated look, and for a moment it feels so much like old times that I nearly ask where the wine is and if we’ll be drinking it on the roof. But then Maglor’s expression grows anxious, and he shifts around in his seat.

He licks his lips and looks around the room before saying, “I’m going to see my family. I waited…I waited so long. But I will see my brothers again soon, and I will tell them all the things I wish I had told them before I lost them.”

I never pressed Maglor to talk about his brothers, but sometimes he had spoken of them as though they are deceased, and at other times as though they are alive. Now it seems that they are indeed alive, and I’m glad for that.

Maglor looks distressed, though.

“I wish I had been better. I wish I had been stronger for them. I wish I had never let them—” he makes a choked sound, his breathing becoming heavier as he struggles with the burden of all the things he can’t seem to say.

I reach for him, find his wrist on the bed, and my touch seems to ground him. His mood shifts, the air in the room changing with it.

His eyes shine with tears, but he’s luminous with joy as he goes on, “But I’m going to see them again. I can hardly believe it.”

His joy spreads to me, and I feel my own eyes water.

“It’s about time,” Findaráto says, gazing affectionately at Maglor.

I’m glad Findaráto is here. I’m glad both of them are here.

I feel dizzy, tired, and in a moment of terrible understanding I realize that I am dying. I will never see my friends again. I feel the desperate urge to grab them both and cling to them, as though they could keep me rooted here. But that’s not possible, and I’ll settle for having just a bit more of them before I go.

They must sense something of my thoughts, because Findaráto comes to me and strokes my hair back from my face, and Maglor is now holding my hand tightly in both of his.

I want something of them, something to hold me through this. It comes to me suddenly, my appreciation for the all the beautiful music Maglor brought to my life, and I say, “Sing me something.”

My friends look at each other, and Findaráto smiles.

Maglor starts, his voice low and rich with feeling, and Findaráto joins in a minute later in buoyant counterpoint. Their voices seem to create images in my mind, and soon I find myself gazing in wonder at two trees that flare with vibrant light. My friends’ voices weave around me and hold me tight through visions of a people who lived and loved and pursued with great feeling whatever paths they chose.

I catch glimpses of Maglor and his brothers, and of Findaráto, among so many beautiful faces that shine with light and determination.

The song is just beginning to grow heavy with foreshadowing when I become aware of my body again. My chest throbs with a tight pain, but there are strong arms around me now, and I’m not afraid when my heart stutters to a stop.

And just like that I’m soaring out over the ocean, then past it, away from the hospital and my friends. The light that leads the way is many-colored and splendid, just like Maglor said it would be, shining with the promise of wonders yet unseen. I have never felt so light, so free of burden, not even on the happiest days of my life.

But I carry with me all the things Maglor taught me. I carry the memory of my friends with me, will carry it forever, and that soothes the pain of our parting.

I pause for only the briefest moment to glance back at the path I’ve left shimmering behind me, and in the fading images of their song I see flashes of the all the things my friend wanted to share with me but couldn’t when I was alive. I understand the nature of his struggles, though our paths were very different, and I send back a pulse of love that I hope reaches him.

I hope...

I wish I had been kinder to myself. I wish I had been able to see myself as my friend saw me. But it’s not too late.

As I fly on toward the next beginning, my spirit sings out with a new voice all the sorrows and joys, all the pleasures and the hurts that make up a lifetime.

And the song is beautiful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this story. Seriously, writing is challenging, but your encouragement keeps me going. Thank you! <3

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of my inspiration for this fic came from the songs [Never Let Me Go](https://youtu.be/zMBTvuUlm98) by Florence + The Machine, and [All These Things That I've Done](https://youtu.be/4sesUEiTcXo) by The Killers. I listened to them so much during the writing of this fic that now they'll be forever connected to Maglor in my mind.


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